


Don't Shoot The Messenger, Offer Him A Glass Of Wine

by DiamondDove



Category: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel - Michael Scott
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slow Burn, billy on the other hand is actually pretty good reasonable, mac is kinda an idiot in this tbh he's just emotionally incompetent, so am i so bitch ain't special, this is only rated teen because I'm letting them curse, which like, with his usual chaos sprinkled in there ofc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondDove/pseuds/DiamondDove
Summary: So Aten and Quetzalcoatl send each other messages, and they're using their immortal servants as messengersObviously, those messengers are going to run into each other at some pointMaybe they'll get into trouble, maybe they won'tEither way, hyjinks are bound to ensue
Relationships: Niccolò Machiavelli/Henry "Billy the Kid" McCarty (Nicholas Flamel)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter One

Niccolò Machiavelli’s master, Aten, and the Elder Quetzalcoatl had been keeping a correspondence via using their respective servants as messengers for years. Machiavelli brought Aten’s messages to Quetzalcoatl’s Shadowrealm every few months, and Quetzalcoatl sent a servant to drop his response at Machiavelli’s doorstep, because no one really knew where Aten was currently residing, so Machiavelli himself had to call his master and let him know where to pick up the latest message (pickup spots always changed; it was just safer that way).

Machiavelli himself found the way that Aten and Quetzalcoatl chose to keep a correspondence to be fairly inconvenient, and honestly over complicated. There were so many other ways to send messages to people, and sending your immortal human servants to deliver them was pretty far down on the tier list. You could scry, you could have some other creature with the ability to deliver things deliver them, you could leave messages at one spot and visit said spot to collect the messages at alternating intervals, there were a variety of magical artifacts you could use, there were animals you could use, there were so many spells you could use, you could just meet up in person, but no. Aten and Quetzalcoatl, for some reason beyond Machiavelli, chose one of the most inconvenient ways of messaging. Of course, Aten probably didn’t see it that way, because Aten didn’t have to get up and take a laygate to California and make his way to a fairly secluded Shadowrealm, and then make his way all the way back. Without attracting unwanted attention, and without taking too long.

But Machiavelli was an overall loyal servant, and delivering his master’s mail was probably the least deadly job he’d ever been given. And at the moment he wanted to avoid getting put on any extremely dangerous missions, so he didn’t complain to his master and he made time in his schedule to deliver the messages.

Though Machiavelli did find the delivery inconvenient, he did find some enjoyment in pondering the mystery of the servant who delivered messages for Quetzalcoatl. Despite the fact that whoever they were literally dropped the letters off in Machiavelli’s mailbox, right at his door, he’d never met them. After all, he was always either in his secret room, where outside noises were drastically muted if not blocked out completely, or he was out of the house. Or Dagon had had enough of making multiple pots of coffee and made him go to sleep. No matter, the fact that he and Quetzalcoatl’s servant had been delivering these messages and they still hadn’t crossed paths was, in Machiavelli’s opinion, fairly odd. As a matter of fact, all Machiavelli had to go off of when it came to the other immortal was the notably faded scent of cayenne pepper, and their servitude to Quetzalcoatl. He hadn’t yet gotten around to checking the security cameras he had set up, mainly because the mystery of who was leaving Quetzalcoatl’s letters in his mailbox wasn’t the most dire of needs, but he did ponder it from time to time. Sometimes he went and reviewed his list of American immortals, debating the probability of each one, despite the fact that all his theories were debunked easily by either aura scents, places of residence, or masters.

But there were always immortals Machiavelli missed when it came to his database. That was just the thing about knowledge, there’s always more of it. All Machiavelli needed was enough knowledge to have the power required to maintain his current abilities within the worlds of the humani and the Elder Race.

But, despite the anonymity of the messenger, they were almost never at the forefront of Machiavelli’s mind.

As a matter of fact, most of the time Machiavelli forgot about them, and the politics of the mortal humans practically consumed his full attention.

However, the two of them did have a few close calls, cases of one just missing the other.

The first time Machiavelli caught a glimpse of the other immortal was after yet another day of ensuring that his plans would work out as they were intended to, and no one was catching on to him. The Italian had been thoroughly exhausted by the amount of work he had on his hands (though he wouldn't admit it) and only drew himself out of his mind and back into the real world as he felt the car make that one turn that he knew meant that he was almost home. His day wasn’t over just yet, and he did have work to do that didn’t involve the humans and all their needs in the midst of the web he was weaving around them.

As Machiavelli got out of the car, he caught sight of a man walking around the corner, out of his sight. He didn’t pay him any mind, this was a city after all and there were other people out. However the lingering but faint scent of cayenne drifted through the air, and the Italian made a note to get around to checking those cameras soon. Of course, before he could get a chance to do so, a certain English Magician went and sparked something that messed another thing up. As he did so painfully and annoyingly often for someone who was still living and serving Dark Elders. Honestly, Machiavelli wondered how long it would be until the man was finally killed off as a byproduct of his own actions. The little shenanigan he’d pulled this time certainly meant that his demise was plausible, but Machiavelli had begun to think that the English Magician even served an Elder anymore.

The second time was in California. February, 1950. Machiavelli had been on his way to Quetzalcoatl’s Shadowrealm, making small talk with the poor soul who’d picked him up from the side of the road and agreed to take him to what they thought was a coworker’s house to drop something off. They were almost there when a Ford truck drove past them on the road. Machiavelli had originally dismissed it as someone on their way back to the city from a hike, or camping trip, as there were places in the area where you could do that, but the lingering scent of cayenne pepper at Quetzalcoatl’s doorstep gave him reason to think otherwise. Looking back on the incident he regretted not getting a better look at the driver, but at the time he hadn’t deemed it important. All he was sure that he caught a glimpse of was the driver’s hair color, which was either a shade of blonde or a very light brown.

So all Machiavelli had to go off of was an almost exact impression of the color of the other messenger’s hair, an aura scent, and the identity of the Elder he served.

It wasn’t much to go off of, but in all truth Machiavelli was in the middle of reevaluating and editing his plans to fit the current events of mortal politics, and didn’t have the time to do any proper further research.

As the years passed, Machiavelli and the immortal who he’d still managed not to meet continued to either just miss each other or never manage to be in the right places at the right times. On rare occasions Machiavelli got to the letter so soon after the other man that the scent of cayenne was still fresh on the parchment. On occasions rarer still the scent was fresh enough that Machiavelli paused to wonder which one of the people he’d passed on the drive to his house from work had been the other immortal.

And really, it could have been anyone. Machiavelli usually wasn’t paying much attention to the streets around him unless Dagon suddenly perked up or growled, which was a rare occasion and one that Machiavelli had grown to know as the signal of a threat. And here in Europe, where the Elders, Next Generation, and immortal gathered in significant numbers, an immortal on the street wasn’t immediately deemed a threat unless they activated their aura and made themselves detectable.

was a day that had been going relatively good for Machiavelli, September in the year 1954. Things were calming down alright, and that day had been one of the easier ones to handle. Machiavelli’s Elder master had suddenly sent him off on multiple missions on short-notice. But that day, Machiavelli didn’t have anything else to do regarding the Elders after work which meant he had an evening to himself and his interests. Hopefully, the number of missions he would have to run would slow and he would be able to let himself relax for a bit.

Machiavelli had been pondering what he would do with his free evening as Dagon parked the car in front of his house and came around to open the door for the Italian. As he stepped out of the car, a young man with blonde hair cut short, loose-fitting biker jacket, black Levis, and a pair of worn cowboy boots jogged up the steps to his door, slid an envelope into the mailbox, rapped his knuckles against the door, and then turned around to descend the steps. But when he saw Machiavelli and Dagon, he stopped, glanced back at the house, then again at Machiavelli. His eyes were blue, and with his advanced eyesight Machiavelli could see the calculating gaze in them. The man lifted a hand, pointing to the Italian and then back at the house.

“Hey, are you the guy who lives here?” He said, speaking English with a more than notable old-fashioned western American accent, made somewhat by the slight trill of something else just under it.

Machiavelli noted with a spark of curious excitement that he could make out the scent of cayenne pepper around all the usual smells of the city. He also noted how he stood like this was just another day, and how he gestured to his surroundings with the same sort of energy. You could always tell so many things about a person just by how they moved. After gesturing for Dagon to stop tensing up like he was about to throw hands, Machiavelli nodded in response to the man’s question. “Yes, that would be me.”

The young man’s eyes lit up, and his face split into a grin. “Well, is it a pleasure to finally meet you!” He quickly made his way down the steps—practically bouncing with energy Machiavelli could only imagine having nowadays—stopping in front of the Italian and extending a hand.“William Bonney, but most everyone just calls me Billy.”

Machiavelli shook Billy’s hand, returning the younger immortal’s grin with a small smile of his own that he couldn’t seem to help. It looked like his own curiosity regarding who the other messenger was was a mutual feeling. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bonney, I’m Niccolò Machiavelli. I assume you’re the one who’s been leaving the messages for Quetzalcoatl?”

Billy nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’s me. Y’know, I’ve always wondered who actually lives here. My boss never tells me anything I actually want to know,” The younger man shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Pretty annoying, if you ask me.”

Machiavelli smirked slightly. “Ah, I take it you’re fairly new to this?”

Billy blinked, eyebrows raising slightly. “To the servitude? I guess so, why? Are our bosses always this vague?”

“Quite frequently, actually. At his point I’m inclined to believe that it’s part of their nature. Would you care to come inside? You may find it preferable to lingering on the streets.” Machiavelli said, gesturing to the door.

Billy opened his mouth, seemed to remember something, paused for a moment to check a cracked watch on his wrist, and a quick flash of a somewhat disappointed and surprised expression made its way through his gaze before he looked back up at Machiavelli. “Hate to have to turn down your invite, but I promised my friend I’d be there to help her take care of something. She’s not the type to have many people she decides that she can count on,” Billy explained hurriedly, smiling apologetically. “And y’see, I didn’t expect time to go by as fast as it did, but I got kinda sidetracked on my way to the California leygate, and here we are. Maybe next time though! It was great to meet you!” Billy said, waving as he hurried past Machiavelli and off towards the Notre Dame leygate.

Machiavelli watched him go, raising a hand in farewell before heading up the steps of his house and taking Quetzalcoatl’s message out of the mailbox. Dagon opened the door, holding it and letting the Italian enter before he followed.

“So, thoughts on Mr. William Bonney?” Machiavelli said casually, reverting from English to Italian.

“I don’t like him. You can practically smell the recklessness, and he’s got the finesse of a troublemaker. And not like the Wild Boar was a troublemaker in an efficient way.” Dagon responded, crossing his arms over his chest as he struggled through the words but managed well enough.

“Hm, yes. I do get that impression of him. Though we only talked for about a minute, so there’s no real way to know. However, we can make an educated guess. Did you notice how he stood?” Machiavelli said, thinking aloud and ignoring the mention of Eugène.

Dagon nodded. “Completely sure of himself. Probably has an ego.”

“And his hands were rough, likely suited to more physical labor. Perhaps he can handle himself in a fight and knows it,” the Italian folded his hands behind his back, walking to the window and looking out at the street. “I for one thought he was lovely to talk to. The energy was a nice change from most everyone else I have to talk to during the day.”

Dagon just grunted in response, deciding he’d had enough with humani languages for the day.

“Oh don’t worry, I didn’t mean you. And if it makes you happy to know, I doubt we’ll be running into him often. As a matter of fact, I’ll be honestly surprised if we see him again this year.” Machiavelli said.

With that, the Italian strode across the room and down the hall, opening the door to his hidden room with a series of handmade keys and a passcode. Which, yes, admittedly was an odd combination of security measures, but it worked, and so far no one had managed to break into it before he or Dagon had gotten to them.

He’d decided what he was going to spend his evening doing, and all he had to do before he headed off to the library was decide on a meeting spot and figure out the details of pickup with Aten.

Machiavelli had one William Bonney to research.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so they meet again

As Machiavelli had predicted, he and Billy didn’t meet again in 1954. 

Or 1955, for that matter. 

And they continued to somehow avoid meeting in 1956, though there were some close calls that Machiavelli didn’t really notice.

In fact, William Bonney had been put away at the back of Machiavelli’s mind. No longer someone to wonder about. After some quick research done to figure out who exactly he’d been before he was immortal, Machiavelli didn’t need to think about him often. There were other things that he had to focus on, other missions from his Elder he had to complete, plans he had to follow through with. Of course, he still delivered those messages, and when he did so he did think about Billy, and wonder when the next time that they would run into each other would be. But even then, he honestly didn’t contemplate him for long. Usually it was just a quick ‘Oh, that’s right, William Bonney is the other messenger. I do wonder when I’ll see him again’ and then off he went to continue his life. 

But of course, two people don’t just act as messengers in the way Billy and Machiavelli were and meet only once. It was just a matter of time before they would both be in the right place at the right time again. 

And that day arrived in the August of 1957, as Machiavelli arrived in Quetzalcoatl’s Shadowrealm with another message.

The Italian stepped out of the car, leaving the poor driver to look around in confusion at the place he’d ended up in. Honestly, this poor guy. He certainly hadn’t been told about any of the odd symbols that were painted and carved into the trees and fence posts, and he honestly had never been expecting them. Why would he? After all, Machiavelli had taken advantage of his business suit and fallen back on his story about being on his way to drop something off at a colleague’s house, hitchhiking his way to the Shadowrealm as he usually did. This man had no idea who Machiavelli was, and all the answers he’d given the man when he asked about his life were vague and odd. He could only hope to never see him again after this. The man’s nerves were getting bad, causing his hands to tremble uncontrollably. He didn’t even know why he was so antsy, besides how wrong everything felt and everything that was off about the place he’d ended up in. But the presence of a parked red 1951 Ford Victoria seemed reassuring to him, and he wondered—hoped, really—that maybe he wouldn’t have to drive the odd man in the tailored suit back to the city.

However, Machiavelli found the presence of that same red 1951 Ford Victoria to be odd, and enough of a reason for him to be unnerved. From what he’d gathered, Quetzalcoatl wasn’t exactly the social type, preferring to remain in seclusion and silence accompanied by only the remnants of an empire long gone. As Machiavelli passed the car, making his way towards the door of the Feathered Serpent’s house, he breathed in, testing the air to see if there was a lingering scent signature.

He found the smell of fresh grass, clean air, all manner of wildflowers, California dust, and… the lingering spice of cayenne pepper. Well, Machiavelli hadn’t expected to run into Billy in Quetzalcoatl’s Shadowrealm of all places, but it did make sense. Billy was Quetzalcoatl’s servant after all. So here they both apparently were. Or rather, here Machiavelli and the car that apparently belonged to William Bonney were. Curious. As Machiavelli continued on his way to the door, he just hoped that he wasn’t arriving at an inconvenient time.

As it turns out, the time was indeed somewhat inconvenient.

The door swung open before Machiavelli could even knock, and an obviously agitated Willaim Bonney almost ran right into him.

“What the hell- Oh. Machiavelli, right?” Billy said, expression shifting slightly from annoyed at a high level to less annoyed but still very obviously in a bad mood.

The Italian bowed his head slightly. “Glad to see you remember me, Mr. Bonney.” 

Billy waved his hand vaguely and made to push past Machiavelli, but before he could even take two steps another voice rang out from within the house. Harsh, and raspy, with an accent Machiavelli knew to associate with a past resident of the fallen city of Danu Talis. “Billy if he has a message then hurry up and bring it in here. You know, be useful for once?”

Machiavelli assumed this was Quetzalcoatl. He’d never met the Elder face to face, or heard his voice, but who else would be ordering Billy around like such?

Billy just rolled his eyes and without slowing his pace turned his head back to look back at the doorway over his shoulder. “You can get it! You know, do something yourself for once?” he called, and then proceeded to make his way to the Ford Victoria.

Machiavelli watched Billy walk away, all attitude and anger. He and Quetzalcoatl must have had some sort of disagreement, though over what he could only imagine. And the sheer audacity Billy had, sassing his Elder like that… well. Machiavelli was impressed. He couldn’t sass Aten at all, mostly because he feared for his life, partially because he just didn’t have the nerve. 

“I’ll take that message now.” A rasping hiss of a voice, coming from the doorway said. Machiavelli pulled his gaze away from Billy, and back to the house where a short, copper-skinned man stood, foot tapping expectantly. But obviously, this was no man. The feathered tail and solid black (very dark greenish-grey, really, considering the slit of a pupil that you could just make out) eyes were enough proof of that. Quetzalcoatl’s tail lashed behind him as he held a hand out and snapped his fingers impatiently. “Did you or did you not hear me, humani? I said I’ll take whatever message you have for me now.”

Machiavelli pulled the heavy parchment out of his pocket and held it out. The Feathered Serpent snatched it out of the Italian’s hand immediately, turned away, muttered something about regrets and immortality, and slammed the door with a heavy thud. Machiavelli blinked, trying to figure out why Quetzalcoatl had actually come to the door when Billy had told him to, and hesitated for a moment before turning away from the house.

Billy the Kid was watching him, sat on the hood of his Ford Victoria. There was a moment of silence, both immortals just staring at each other before the American gestured to the passenger seat. “Do you need a ride? Whoever you had drive you here took off when Quetzalcoatl showed up.” he said, jerking his head towards the fresh tire tracks that marked where the man who’d driven Machiavelli to the Shadowrealm had made a getaway.

“Yes, I suppose I do. Thank you.” Machiavelli said, already walking to the passenger side of the Victoria. He was careful with his actions and what he said, not wanting to do anything that might set Billy off.

After all, Machiavelli had done his research. He knew who Billy the Kid was, and he knew about the reputation he’d built around his short temper. And with Billy’s already agitated mood… well. He didn’t want to push his luck. At least, he didn’t want to push his luck until Billy had cooled off enough for Machiavelli to be able to ask questions without getting aggression and the increasing chance of a fight in response. 

Billy slid off the hood of his car and made his way to the driver’s seat, waiting for Machiavelli to get in before starting the car and putting it in gear, beginning the drive out of Quetzalcoatl’s Shadowrealm. The radio was on, but only static and an occasional fragment of something like a voice came through. But Billy didn’t seem to care, and Machiavelli wasn’t going to make any wrong moves. So he let the static fill the car until they passed beyond the edges of the Shadowrealm and the noise turned to something resembling words, and then to an almost followable conversation. Through it all, Billy seemed to relax, and as he drove beyond the forest, he fiddled with the radio until he found a station he liked. 

The two of them drove in silence and static-filled music until the forest began to thin and Billy spoke up. “You can ask questions if you have them y’know. I’ll answer.” He said, notably more relaxed than he had been at the beginning of the drive.

“…Can I ask what you and Quetzalcoatl were fighting about?” Machiavelli asked after a moment of hesitation. He was a curious man after all, and he did want to know.

Billy, to Machiavelli’s surprise and, admittedly, confusion, laughed. The sound had a slightly dark undertone to it, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “Oh, that old monster and I have… ah…,” Billy gestured vaguely to the air as he searched for the words “clashing ideals. I refused to do something that went against my morals, he got mad about it, tried to make me do it, and I stood my ground. He’ll probably just give me an especially nasty job next time, something that’ll probably almost kill me. But hey, I love a good adventure.” Billy grinned. “And, it’s practically impossible to kill me, so we’ll see how his attempts go.”

“You’re playing a very dangerous game.” Machiavelli said quietly.

“Oh don’t worry about it. There are very few things he could do in order to actually mess with me, so it’s an acting game most of the time. But honestly, I’ve been playing a dangerous game all my life. I’m an outlaw, after all. Though whether by choice or not is apparently up for debate,” Billy responded, seeming completely unbothered and still smiling. “Y’know, sometimes I like to look at all the discourse around my life and just… watch. It’s real entertaining, and they’re all biased in some way or another, so I get to read all these different opinions on who I was as a person, and all of them are pretty wrong.” 

Machiavelli nodded. “The discourse surrounding you is certainly… intriguing. Everyone seems to have their own views on you, most shaped by the media.”

Billy nodded. “Y’know, I really don’t think I’ve found a book that’s even near accurate, which is really weird to me. I did interviews with the paper, and I know there’s more than one person I rode with who said accurate things about me, but for some reason Americans just love their cold-blooded serial killer cowboys. Never got the point of that. I think I was an antihero at worst, but then again, I could be a little biased considering I am Billy the Kid.” he laughed again, and Machiavelli found himself smiling a little. 

Cold-blooded serial killer cowboy, charismatic misinterpreted man, or other, Billy the Kid was turning out to be someone that Niccolò Machiavelli undoubtedly wanted to get to know.

As they drove back to the leygate, Billy talked on and on, never seeming to pause unless Machiavelli had a question or if Machiavelli wanted to add something. He was generally upbeat, never missing a chance to make a joke, and always looking on the bright side of things but never leaving the dark untouched or discarded. Sometimes casually mentioning situations that would make even the likes of Dee doubt their survival with the same light tone. He certainly had plenty to say about everything, and ended up spending the majority of the drive rambling on about music.

“Y’know, I like Elvis’ music, I do, but the guy has a weird energy to him. He’s just sort of… off. Like, he’s definitely not the type of person I’d trust until he’d proved I could on more than a few occasions, and I honestly don’t think he’d stick around to prove it either. I still would like to meet him at some point though. I just think that would be cool to some extent, y’know? Just for kicks,” Billy said, pulling up to the leygate, still talking. “Anyway, here we are, Mr. Machiavelli. It was good talking to you!”

Machiavelli nodded, and gave Billy a small smile as he opened the door to exit the car. “Likewise. I do hope we meet again, Mr. Bonney.”

“You can pretty much count on it.” Billy said with a grin. One of those smiles that just makes everything around seem… brighter. Machiavelli found it to be quite a nice trait of someone’s outward personality.

Machiavelli shut the car door, and walked up to the leygate. He stepped onto it, paused, took a breath, and then the world spun, the ground shifted, and he was half a world away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Any feedback is greatly appreciated, thank you! :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do invite him inside, would you?

After their encounter in Quetzalcoatl’s Shadowrealm, Machiavelli didn’t forget about Billy as quickly as he had the last time. Then again, this time it didn’t take years before the two of them happened to meet again. 

It was January, 1958, and for Machiavelli it was one of those days that you just couldn’t work during no matter how hard you try. To the Italian, it was the most annoying thing he’d had to go through in quite some time. Which was really saying something considering that he’d had to deal with a certain idiotic Englishman on far more than one occasion. Honestly though, what was the point of deciding to take a few days off from the work he did in the mortal government if he couldn’t spend them refining his plans for the future of it? There was undoubtedly a loophole somewhere in what he had so far, but for some reason he couldn’t find the motivation to find and get rid of it. And he had to return to his job the next day, where he would likely be suddenly inclined to do the work he just couldn’t manage today.

But as of now, he had no motivation. And that’s why he was sitting in his living room, allowing himself to indulge in a little bit of over-dramatic attitude. Glass of wine in one hand, bottle on the side table beside him, book open, legs draped over the armrest of the chair he sat on, fire lit and burning well. Oh, and he was sighing dramatically whenever something remotely negative happened in the book he’d gone and chosen randomly out of his personal library. Still, Machiavelli found himself losing the motivation to even read after an hour or so, and had to resign himself to staring at the ceiling, sipping at his glass of wine, and pondering whatever crossed his mind.

Like the personalities of the months, for example. January, for one, was such a bleak month. The beginning of the new year was really the only thing that saved it from being as bad as February. And honestly, what was it with February? It was the shortest month, but it always managed to feel like the longest. It was just… so overwhelmingly bleak. March was less bleak, but it was still up there. June, July, and August were usually more exciting, July in particular was exciting for Americans, though it wasn’t much to Machiavelli. September was lovely, in Machiavelli’s opinion. To him it marked the beginning of autumn, and the leaves began to change. October was always quite entertaining, with the widely celebrated holiday of Halloween to be excited for at the end of it, and usually there was more activity amongst the inhuman residents of the Earth Shadowrealm. November was usually skipped over because who cares about November, to be honest? December could be fun, but it could also be fairly unpleasant depending on your opinion of the holiday season. Children, for example, loved it. Their parents… maybe not so much. And then you were back with January and all it’s bleakness.

Machiavelli’s little session of unmotivated pondering was interrupted by a knock at the door. Normally, he would have left Dagon to go see who it was, but he was already resorting to thinking about things like why January was so bleak, so he got up and headed to get the door himself. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting, or what he was supposed to be expecting, but Billy the Kid, shivering at his doorstep in clothes obviously not suited for winter and one of Quetzalcoatl’s messages was not it. Regardless, he invited the younger immortal inside, offering a break from the cold.

Billy accepted the invitation immediately, gratefully stepping out of the cold and into the warmth of Machiavelli’s house.

“Man, it’s cold out there,” Billy mumbled, rubbing his arms. “Haven’t had to deal with the cold in a while, to tell you the truth. I stick to the warmer parts of California and sometimes I’ll head over to Arizona, but I’m pretty much never anywhere cold. Y’know I’ve never liked it much. Never seen the damn point of it. Like, ok so there’s science or something that makes the poles cold, but like jeez the Earth really had to be tilted on its axis or something and have seasons.”

Machiavelli smiled. “Sometimes things are just inconvenient like that. Luckily there’s such a thing as proper winter clothes. Perhaps you should look into getting some?”

Billy shrugged. “If I can get a hold of the money, sure, I could probably get a decent jacket. However, me in France in January is a pretty unusual occurrence, so leather usually works just fine for me.”

“True, my apologies. Care for a glass of wine? I already have an open bottle…?” Machiavelli said, tilting his head slightly to the side and gesturing to his living room.

It seemed to take Billy a moment to remember that while it was still too early to be drinking back in California, this wasn’t California, this was France and that there was a significant time difference. But he shrugged, and smiled. “Sure, why not?” He said.

“Alright. Dagon, could you get Mr. Bonney a glass?” Machiavelli said, turning back towards his living room, gesturing for Billy to follow.

Dagon nodded, and strode away to get the glass while Billy followed after Machiavelli, looking around at the various artifacts the Italian had collected over the years and put on display in his home. Machiavelli glanced over his shoulder at Billy, who’d paused for a moment to look at a pair of daggers. Machiavelli had hunted those two specific blades down through the collections of multiple people, and was quite happy with the quality they’d been kept in. Though they had apparently caught Billy’s attention, the American didn’t linger for long, quickly resuming his pace and following Machiavelli.

The Italian took up the chair that he’d been sitting in previously, but sat in it like he normally would instead of sitting in it sideways, and gestured to the armchair opposite him. Billy took a seat and almost immediately relaxed into it. 

“Oh man you know how to pick a good chair,” He said, and then laughed a little. “Well, those are some words I can honestly say I never thought I’d be saying.”

Machiavelli smiled. “Well, the two of us do live in an odd world, don’t we? Running errands for beings that used to be revered as gods.”

Billy nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve worked for some less than favorable people, and some people who I would still love to punch in the face, but honestly Quetzalcoatl’s attitude is something else entirely. He’s got mood swings bad enough to break a swing set.”

Machiavelli had to pause to process ‘mood swings bad enough to break a swing set’.. “Well, I have to say I haven’t heard that used to describe an Elder’s emotions before.”

Billy flashed a grin, and took the glass of wine Dagon had poured for him as he spoke. “Well then you just haven’t been hanging out with the right people. My friend Black Hawk and I both work for the same guy and oh boy do we have things to say about him. Like he has a serious chocolate addiction, and honestly it’s getting to be a problem,” Billy shifted forwards in his chair. “I’m not lying, if I have to go and get another shipment of just cacao, I’m gonna lose it. I can never get the smell out of the trunk of my car, and sometimes I forget it smells like cacao back there and then bam there’s a wave of it and sometimes it just completely overwhelms me.”

Machiavelli was almost taken aback. He’d never heard an immortal express open disdain for their master. But then again, he rarely interacted with other immortals unless he had to fight them, they were getting in the way of something, or he’d been assigned to work with them. He took a sip of his wine before speaking. “Well, I don’t mean to disappoint but my master and I don’t keep much correspondence outside of my role as a messenger between him and Quetzalcoatl and my general servitude, so I don’t have any real complaints besides his habit of being vague.”

Billy shrugged and took a sip of his wine. “No problems here. I get not having much contact with your Elder. Personally, I envy you when it comes to that.”

Machiavelli raised his eyebrows. “You envy me?”

Billy nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t really mind meeting Quetzalcoatl in person, but having to drive all the way to his Shadowrealm and then trust him not to let my car die in it just to be told I have to get him some magic groceries is always annoying no matter what. And I swear, he’s got something watching me so he knows exactly when it’s inconvenient for me to do something for him. Honestly, the guy might be my boss but he doesn’t have to be so demanding about everything.”

“Well, we are indebted to our masters. They did give us our immortality.” Machiavelli said. 

“I was made immortal because I saved Quetzalcoatl from having his ass handed to him by a gang of particularly rude people who I didn’t like. He just decided to repay that by making me immortal. In my eyes, his debt is relayed, and neither of us should be indebted to each other right now. I work for him because I appreciate the excitement that the jobs offer.” Billy said, remaining calm overall, but his tone had shifted ever so slightly.

Machiavelli was able to take the hint, recognize the edge in Billy’s voice, and quickly searched for a way to change the subject. “Hm. Moving on, have you explored the rest of the city when you come to deliver messages? It’s quite a lovely place.” He said, sipping at his wine.

Billy, who’d really only tensed slightly, relaxed and took a sip from his own glass. “Nah. I honestly can’t speak any French other than bonjour and désolé, je ne parle pas français. Basically not even the minimum, you know? But I can speak Spanish fluently.”

“Only English and Spanish then?” Machiavelli asked, genuinely curious at this point.

The American nodded. “Mhm. Nothing fancy. I’m gonna guess that you speak more than two languages?”

Machiavelli nodded. “That would be correct. I speak a dozen or so.”

Billy, who obviously hadn’t been expecting his question to be answered so casually with “a dozen or so”, choked on his wine. “Pardon me, a dozen or so? How do you- What do you mean a dozen or so?Did you pick up the basics of one and become fluent in another?”

Machiavelli smiled. “Various languages are all connected through shared roots, and if you know one then others begin to make sense. Romance languages, for example. If you know one, others become easier to piece together. So I can speak a dozen fluently and figure out bits and pieces of others. Therefore, a dozen or so.”

Billy sat back in his chair and exhaled through his teeth. “Well then guess I better start learning French or something. Don’t have much of an excuse not to anymore, do I? Anyway, so do you know any of the languages they speak in other Shadowrealms? I have a friend who can speak one of them.”

Machiavelli shook his head. “No, I don’t often venture out into the Shadowrealms surrounding this one. My work is here, and so here I remain. For the most part, that is.” The Italian took another sip of his wine, waiting for Billy’s response with a feeling of anticipation he wouldn’t admit he felt. Billy was oddly nice to listen to, and Machiavelli wanted to hear more.

“So… what Shadowrealms have you visited?” Billy asked, 

Machiavelli didn’t hesitate in his answer.

Time moved, topics of conversation shifted, the late evening turned to night, and the night gave way to the early morning. Without knowing until the dawn began to break, Machiavelli and Billy had talked the night away. 

Machiavelli was the first to notice, and hurriedly checked the time. His gift—curse?—- of immortality may have granted him sleepless nights without fatigue, but he had to be at work by 5:30am, and judging by the light he currently had twenty minutes or so to prepare.

Goodbyes were hurried, Billy rushing out the door, shouting a farewell over his shoulder. Dagon heading out and warming up the car, knowing that Machiavelli wouldn’t have the time to wait for it to start up when he got out. Machiavelli himself was rushing to get into a clean suit, being careful not to wrinkle the silk, regretting a few choice past decisions, before running out the door and getting into the car.

And so, the third meeting between Billy the Kid and Niccolò Machiavelli came to an end in a flurry of rushed goodbyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Any feedback is greatly appreciated, thank you! :)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idiots draw unwanted attention to themselves. A high-speed car chase ensues

The outlaw and the Italian didn’t meet for another few years. But of course, they did meet again. It was October 1960, and though the messages between Quetzalcoatl and Aten had continued, Billy and Machiavelli hadn’t run into each other. They each had their reasons, but each of them wondered from time to time when they’d meet again. And then one day, it wasn’t just a letter Machiavelli was tasked with delivering. There was also a package. And judging by the energy signature, whatever it was was powerful, and definitely not something to be handled lightly. Machiavelli expected to attract some… undesirable attention because of it. There was also a note addressed to Machiavelli detailing the exact day he was to deliver the package and letter to Quetzalcoatl. So Machiavelli went to the lengths he needed to go to in order to deliver the package on time. 

But to be completely honest, he did not expect Billy the Kid to be waiting for him at the leygate, sitting on the hood of his now quite old (but still well-kept) Ford Victoria.

“Well, long time no see,” Billy said, flashing Machiavelli one of his brilliant grins and sliding off the hood of his car.

Machiavelli smiled. “Quite some time indeed. I assume Quetzalcoatl sent you?”

“Yeah. Apparently wants to be sure that whatever package you’ve got with you gets to him in one piece. Said it was the type of thing that’s ‘prone to attracting attention’ or something,” Billy shrugged. “Doesn’t seem that bad to me, but he made a big deal about it.”

“It gives off an easily detectable energy signature. Dagon’s had to scare off a few… creatures that have been after it but nothing too bad,” Machiavelli said, grip shifting on the bag he held. “However, we should be alright considering the worst we’ve had to deal with is a few sack men.”

“Huh,” Billy shrugged, and opened the driver’s side door. “Well, c’mon and get in then. Can’t have either of us staying out here with, uh, whatever that thing is, attracting some unsavory attention. Do we actually know what it is?” 

Machiavelli nodded, already walking forwards and reaching for the passenger side door handle. “I have my suspicions, all of which I hope are untrue.”

Billy got into the car, his usual grinning lighthearted self, despite Machiavelli’s serious tone and whatever thing they were transporting, and as he started up the car he was already talking. “So, it’s sorta been a while since we last met, I guess, but I’ve gotta tell you about the Shadowrealm one of my friends showed me. It was pretty similar to ours, but all the animals sorta had feathers or scales, and the whole place looked like a redwood forest in the day but there was all this golden fog and that made it all look like there was sun sorta uh… jeez how do I explain this… like the sun was held within the fog and it was swirling everywhere? Yeah, that’s accurate. Anyway, it was honestly probably one of the best adventures I’ve been on in a while. Mostly for relaxation reasons, because even without the danger it was really really fun.”

“Oh, I haven’t visited that particular Shadowrealm. Practically all of the ones that I’ve been to have been far more aquatic in nature,” Machiavelli said, hastily running through the list of Shadowrealms that he and Dagon had visited over the centuries in his head. “I believe I told you this last time we met.”

“Yeah, y’did. Anyway, so the entrance to this one is in one of the redwood forests that’re out here—pretty fitting, I think. Maybe whoever made the Shadowrealm took inspiration from it. Even the parts of the forest outside of the Shadowrealm are very pretty. You could probably turn around and accidentally end up in the Shadowrealm and for a second only be confused about the sudden fog. I could probably take you there sometime if you want to see it?” Billy turned his head to look at Machiavelli, eyebrows raised.

There was a moment, just a quick, fleeting, almost unnoticeable, very sudden moment, where Machiavelli didn’t have the words to respond properly. An invitation to see this Shadowrealm with Billy hadn’t been what he was expecting, but that moment of wordlessness passed almost without the Italian’s notice, and he nodded, smiling. “That does sound quite nice. I don’t know when I might be able to fit it into my schedule, but I do think that is a Shadowrealm I would like to see sometime.”

“Great,” Billy said, turning his gaze back to the road and continuing to grin. “Whenever you have the time you can uh… scry me or something? I dunno, maybe just try and deliver those messages when you have a good opening in your schedule.”

Machiavelli nodded. “I can attempt to make some arrangements so I’ll have more time when I have a message to deliver. If you could somehow figure out when Quetzalcoatl’s expecting one, we should be able to meet more frequently when I come here.”

“Cool, so what about when I’m the one showing up in France? Do you have a schedule or something?” Billy asked, easing on the breaks at a stoplight.

Machiavelli nodded. “Do you have a pen? I can write down the hours that I’m normally home for you?”

Billy gestured towards the passenger side dashboard. “Yeah, I’ve got one in the glove compartment. I think there’s also paper in there, but then again there could also be knives. I sorta just toss things in there and forget about them.”

Machiavelli paused for a moment to process the fact that Billy had just said the words “I think there’s also paper in there, but then again there could also be knives” as casually as if it was completely normal to toss a blade in the glove compartment and then forget that it was there. And when the Italian opened the glove compartment there was indeed a knife. There were three, actually. Despite that, there was also a pen and some paper, so none of Billy’s guesses had actually been wrong. 

Navigating around the blades, which actually upon further inspection were a bowie knife, a butterfly knife, and a butter knife, Machiavelli pulled out the pen and paper. Using the dashboard, Machiavelli jotted down his work hours (in both France’s time zone and California’s) and folded the paper before holding it out for Billy.

As he eased off the breaks, Billy took the paper from Machiavelli, opened it with one hand, and glanced from the road to the paper. “Oh wow, you work a lot of long shifts.” He said, reading through the listed times.

“Ah, well, I do have to keep an eye on most everything nowadays,” Machiavelli muttered. “But it’s not much of an issue for me, I can assure you of that.”

“You sure? I’d bet it’s pretty stressful.” Billy said, putting the paper into his jacket pocket. And glancing over at Machiavelli.

The Italian paused before he responded, considering what to say for just a moment. “It… can be stressful, as most of what I do is ensuring that everyone does what I need them to do in order to keep France as stable as possible. But it’s not like that all the time.”

“Sounds to me like you deserve a good break,” Billy said, eyes back on the road. “If you can take a day off and come on over through the leygate I can pick you up and we can spend the day in that Shadowrealm. I know I already said this, but I can totally take you there, and it’s a really nice place.”

“...I’ll see what I can do,” Machiavelli said, shifting in his seat, turning his head slightly to look out of the window. In the reflection on the glass, he watched Billy glance over at him, an expression of mild concern on his face. Machiavelli was inclined to think that the other man cared too much.

The pair of immortals drove in silence for a while. After a few minutes, Billy flicked the radio on and messed with it until he found a station he liked, searching for something to fill the silence. Someone—an American singer whose music Machiavelli didn’t know—came on, and Billy began to hum along to the music, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. 

Machiavelli watched him through the reflection of the window and quietly wondered why he could never seem to relax and enjoy the music like Billy seemed to. Of course, Billy could just be making noise so the silence between the two of them felt less awkward, but he did seem to be genuinely enjoying himself. Machiavelli shook the thought from his mind. He shouldn’t be pondering if people were enjoying themselves or not. It was a distraction. 

But then again… it wasn’t like he actually had anything real to focus on. 

He… he could think about Billy if he wanted to.

And so that’s what he did, for quite some time, actually. 

And then Billy stopped humming. 

“Hey, uh, Mr. Machiavelli?” Billy said, his attention suddenly on something out of the window and his voice unsure.

“Yes?” Machiavelli responded, the single word holding as many questions as you could think of to match the situation.

“You wouldn’t happen to know of any creatures that run in packs and have jackal heads, would you?” Billy asked, pulling his gaze away from what he was looking at, to the road, and then to the Italian.

Machiavelli froze for a moment, eyes widening, a genuine reaction of shock making its way through his usual mask of calm. He leaned forward, looking around Billy and to the side of the road he’d been looking at. Sure enough, there were three anpu running alongside the car. Whipping his head around to look back out of his own window, he spotted another three coming into view. 

“Machiavelli, do you know what they are?” Billy asked again, more urgency in his voice than uncertainty now. His eyes were wide, and he kept glancing over at the trio of anpu that were running along his side of the car. 

“William. You’re going to want to drive.” Machiavelli said, his voice turning the simple sentence into a sharp command.

Billy pressed his foot down onto the gas and glanced back at the anpu again. He opened his mouth, evidently to repeat his question, but Machiavelli spoke before he had the chance to. “They’re called anpu. The most I know about them is that they were created by the Elder Anubis on Danu Talis, and used as the majority of the Elder’s army and guard. Few of them remain, at least in this world, and them being here is definitely not a good sign. I’d bet that they’re here for this.” Machiavelli patted the bag that held the package.

“Hey, do me a favor and pass me one of the knives that’s in there,” Billy said, taking one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely to the glove compartment.

Machiavelli did so, glancing out the window at the anpu again as he passed the bowie knife off to Billy. “You’re going to want to drive as fast as possible. When the anpu get their chance to attack, they’re going to scream. The sound can be bad enough to paralyze someone, but it usually just stuns. From what I’ve gathered, neither option is enjoyable.”

Billy, the blade slid into a sheath at his hip, urged the car faster. At the moment, they were staying well out of the anpu’s reach, but unlike the anpu, they were going to run low on gas if they kept up this speed. 

“How much longer do you think it’ll take to reach the Shadowrealm?” Machiavelli asked, keeping an eye on the anpu through the rear-view mirror. 

“At the speed we’re going? Uhh I’d give it maybe twenty minutes. And I’m gonna have to slow down when we get closer. I’m sure you’ve noticed the terrain farther along isn’t exactly… ideal for this car,” Billy responded, glancing back at the anpu and then back to the road. “Thing is, I don’t think the gas we have right now is going to get us all the way there. I have extra gas in the trunk but I can’t refill the tank while we’re trying to avoid a pack of jackal-headed dog things.” 

“Just get us as far as you can. When we run low I can try and delay them, see if we can make it to the Shadowrealm.” Machiavelli said.

“Wh- I’m not just going to ditch my car and book it to Quetzalcoatl’s!” Billy said, obviously appalled at the idea.

“It’s either that or our very possible death, William.” Machiavelli snapped.

“Jeez, ok. Do you think the anpu will mess up my car?” Billy asked, as he just set the car skidding, tilted sideways with two wheels lifting up off the ground as he made a turn in the road.

Machiavelli, who unlike Billy (who was focused on the road and seemed fine with all his extreme recklessness) was gripping onto whatever part of the dashboard he could use to brace himself, and could barely answer Billy’s question. “I can give you money for repairs, or a new one if you want, just keep the two of us from dying please.”

“Well, that sounds alright to me. Now hold on, we’re coming up on more turns.” Billy said, right before gritting his teeth and skidding around another bend. Machiavelli braced himself against the dash, closing his eyes briefly as he heard the tires scream against unpaved dirt and stone, and the protesting clank of the Ford Victoria’s engine working to its limit. 

The pair of immortals continued like this, skidding around bends and driving at high speeds as a pack of anpu hellbent on catching up to them followed in close pursuit. Billy, despite the circumstances, had snapped out of his tense and uneasy mood, as was gritting his teeth, almost grinning, blue eyes alight with adrenaline. Machiavelli… not so much. He’d had to squeeze his eyes shut multiple times over the course of the chase, really only opening them again to check on the anpu, and was gripping his seat and the dashboard in a white-knuckled grip. He hated moving this fast. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but he was in fact terrified that the car would skid right into the trees. 

The paralyzing screams of the anpu may have scared him, but not even having the chance to run before the screams began was far worse in his opinion.

“Oh sh-“ Billy began, right as the engine—with impressive finality for a mass of metal—let out a loud clunk. 

And suddenly the car was running on momentum.

Machiavelli, despite knowing the dangers, and despite his general queasiness regarding the whole situation, began to roll down the window.

“Wh- Hey what are you doing?!” Billy said, glancing at Machiavelli while struggling to remain in control of the car.

“Holding them off so we can get out of the car,” Machiavelli said over his shoulder as he leaned slightly out of the window, aura already fired up, fingers already moving. He made a half circle movement in the air, wrist flicking, dirty white smoke trailing after his fingers, and the scent of snake filling the air.

With a deafening crack, trees on either side of the road crashed down behind the car, and what looked like stones rose up out of the ground to stop the anpu from going around. Billy spun his head around to look back, but Machiavelli gripped his shoulder and drew his attention back to the road. “It’s just an illusion. They’re my specialty but definitely won’t hold the anpu for long. We need to get out of the car and see if we can make it to the Shadowrealm in time.” 

“Ok, ok, hold on,” Billy said, slamming on the brakes, spinning the wheel to the side, and sending the car spinning to a stop. Machiavelli forced his lunch back down, grabbed the bag holding nonexistent gods know what, opened the car door, and began running. He recognized enough of his surroundings to know most of the way, but once Billy had hit the ground and began running full-tilt Machiavelli could just follow after him.

Machiavelli was already regretting not going to the gym as frequently as he should have been. He was obviously not well suited for running, and the effort of keeping up the illusion was… taxing, to say the least. The confused barks of the anpu could be heard as they sniffed at the illusion, trying to figure out what exactly they were to do about it. Machiavelli assumed that they would be held back for five more minutes at least, but not more than that. Hopefully, they could make it to the Shadowrealm before the anpu could make it through. Hopefully.

Billy almost tripped as he turned onto the long driveway that both immortals knew led to Quetzalcoatl’s Shadowrealm, and Machiavelli swore he felt his heart stutter. But the outlaw regained his balance in a split second and glanced back at Machiavelli to make sure he was following.

Machiavelli found this oddly comforting, and he found the energy to make it down the rest of the driveway, the snap of hitting the Shadowrealm entrance and making it through coming as a second of momentary relief. Momentary. But there was still the house to get to. And because they’d entered the Shadowrealm, neither of the immortals could see whether or not the anpu were after them yet.

Billy had his knife out of its sheath now, the blade glinting in the light as he made it to Quetzalcoatl’s front door and immediately tried the handle. It wasn’t open. Without hesitation, Billy began to bang on the door. “Hey! Quetzalcoatl! We’ve got anpu coming after us because your boyfriend decided to send some sort of funky artifact, so open your damn door!”

Machiavelli, having caught up to Billy at this point, was too out of breath to protest to his tone, so all he did was try to catch his breath and watch the other end of the driveway for any anpu. Billy continued slamming his fist into the door and basically commanding Quetzalcoatl to open it while glancing over his shoulder every second or so. Both immortals were growing increasingly stressed with every passing second as the anpu got a chance to get closer.

“In the name of literally everything, Billy, you just can’t knock nicely, can you?” A very annoyed Quetzalcoatl snapped as he finally opened the door. “And what do you mean anp-,” Quetzalcoatl stopped mid-sentence, forked tongue flicking through the air before he stepped aside. “Cover your ears and get inside. Though trust me, I won’t stop you from staying out here and suffering.” He added, hissing the last few words with obvious agitation.

Billy and Machiavelli didn’t need to be told to get inside twice. As Machiavelli moved past Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent roughly grabbed the bag that held the artifact (and message) off of the Italian’s shoulder before striding out and slamming the door shut behind him. 

“Well. That was… actually that was pretty fun,” Billy said, regaining control of his breathing. “Don’t think I’ve been in a proper car chase like that before.”

Machiavelli, who was beginning to breathe easier, raised his eyebrows in a question.

Billy caught the look and raised his eyebrows back. “What? Do you not spend your life looking for entertainment?”

“I believe your idea of entertainment is vastly different from mine, William,” Machiavelli said softly, glancing away from Billy to look at the door. “Quetzalcoatl said we had to cover our ears.”

Billy paused, but nodded. “Yeah, actually. He did. Why though? Do you think he’s gonna go fight the anpu or something?” He said, walking over to the door and looking through the peephole. “Ok so actually that’s exactly what he’s doing Machiavelli—“

“The wall and door will muffle it slightly, but get down and cover your ears,” Machiavelli said hurriedly, already moving to do so himself.

The screams started just after Billy and Machiavelli managed to get their hands over their ears. 

The sound was almost deafening. 

Despite the muffling that the house provided, both immortals with their hands over their ears and instinctively channeling their auras to try and tune the noise out, it still felt like there were shards of glass scraping the insides of their skulls. The sound could only be described as a scream, a howl, a war cry of rage, and a laugh, all stitched together into a grating weapon of a sound. Machiavelli had never heard anything like it, and never wanted to hear something close to it again. Given the choice of listening to that noise unmuffled, or death, he already knew he’d be choosing the latter. He couldn’t move with all the noise. He could barely even think. There was only that painful grating noise.

And then it stopped.

The relief was almost instantaneous, and the sudden silence was almost deafening in its own way, permeated only by a residual ringing. Billy let out a sudden shuddering gasp of relief that Machiavelli could barely hear, and when the Italian could bring himself to move again he watched the outlaw tremble as he wiped tears off of his face. Reaching up to his own face, Machiavelli discovered he’d been crying as well. He was also shaking. And the ringing in his ears didn’t seem to be fading. And even the memory of those screams was sending his mind reeling. And he couldn’t seem to get his thoughts together.

This was so far from what Machiavelli had expected when he got his orders to deliver that package that this might as well be an Otherworld.

“Well, good to see that you two weren’t paralyzed.” Came Quetzalcoatl’s voice through the ringing, which seemed to be ebbing away slightly. Looking up, Machiavelli saw the Elder—who still looked extremely annoyed—slit open a heavy parchment envelope and casually walk farther into the house while reading it. 

Machiavelli hadn’t even noticed him open the door.

“Oh, Billy. Your car is probably ruined eternally by your standards but it’s still at least fixable by mine. I highly doubt that’s encouraging to you, but it’s also not my problem, so get yourself together and get out of my Shadowrealm.” Quetzalcoatl said, raising his voice to a volume that could get through the ringing as he poked his head back into the room.

“Y-Yeah whatever.” Billy managed to mutter, gesturing dismissively at the Elder with a trembling hand.

Quetzalcoatl walked away, back into the darker recesses of the house, tail in all its feathered glory slithering after him as he left the pair of immortals to their own devices.

Billy, who was on his hands and knees trying to collect himself, shuddered and curled up on his side. “Gimme a sec Mac my head hurts.” He mumbled, pressing his palms against the sides of his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

Machiavelli just nodded, pretending that he could absolutely hear what Billy said through the ringing, and backed up against the wall. He began to count in his head. Slowly at first, and he lost track of what number he was on a few times in the beginning, but as he continued on he was able to do it. The ringing eased, and Machiavelli was beginning to regain his ability to think coherently. Though when he looked over at Billy, it was obvious that the American was having a rougher time dealing with the aftermath. He seemed to be doing better than he had been when Machiavelli had started counting—roughly five or six minutes ago—but judging by his hands which were still pressed against his head and his eyes that were still shut, his head still hurt. Machiavelli racked his brain for something he could do to help, the single goal giving him a chance to reorganize and orient his mind.

“Man, I signed up for immortality, not mental damage because some dog things were gonna attack,” Billy groaned before Machiavelli could do anything. “What did Quetzalcoatl even do? Fight them? No, don’t answer that, that’s what happened. Kinda just can’t imagine that old snake fighting.” The American dragged his hands down his face. “Ugh. Are your ears ringing? Mine are ringing.”

“Not as badly as they were before,” Machiavelli responded, his relief at the return of Billy’s voice to the room coming through in his own.

“What did Quetzalcoatl say when he stuck his head in here again? I only heard something about doubt and standards. Ears were ringing too badly.” Billy said, cracking an eye open and looking at Machiavelli.

The Italian paused for a moment, considering whether it was a good idea to tell Billy about his car or not. “He said your car was damaged… and that he didn’t know how much you would deem salvageable,” Machiavelli said, opting to water down what the Elder had actually said.

“Oh, ok,” Billy said, pressing a palm to his forehead again, wincing slightly as he moved to sit up. “Well, we kinda knew that would happen. Did he say how damaged it was?”

“Nothing… specific,” Machiavelli said, continuing on with his attempt to keep Billy from distress.

“Did he say it was ‘worthless by my standards’ or something like that? He has a habit of doing that.” Billy mumbled half-heartedly, like he already knew the answer.

“Yes. I’m… going to assume that’s bad?” Machiavelli said tentatively. 

“It means the car’s ruined, and we’re walking back.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redwood forests are visited

“If he’s not back by sundown in three days, I’m coming for him. You will not enjoy the encounter.”

“Ok, so, have him back by Sunday evening? Don’t worry man, I can do that.” 

“I am. Right. Here.” 

The fish-god Dagon and the immortal Billy the Kid turned to look at an obviously annoyed yet mildly amused Machiavelli.

“Sir, I know you’re right there, I am making sure that Mr. Bonney is aware of the conditions of your… trip,” Dagon said, crossing his arms.

“Dagon I am almost five hundred years old. I think I’m old enough to explain the time restrictions myself.” Machiavelli said, crossing his own arms and calmly meeting Dagon’s gaze.

“Sir you are four hundred and ninety-one. You’re not going to be five hundred for another nine years. I get to explain the conditions at least until then.” Dagon responded, gruffly shifting between languages. Billy glanced from the Italian to the fish god, having to rely almost solely on Machiavelli’s contributions to the conversation for any semblance of what he and Dagon were talking about. 

“Oh but I don’t recall you insisting on this back in 1793,” Machiavelli said, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes. Because that was a meeting I organized myself. And I trusted the Wild Boar much more than I trust this…,” Dagon gestured vaguely to the air as he searched for the right word. “American.”

“American,” Machiavelli said, raising his eyebrows slightly farther up.

“American,” Dagon responded.

“Pardon me sirs but uh, as much as listening to y’all argue about… something or another is interesting, based on what I know, this trip is on a time limit,” Billy said, his caution at interrupting the pair’s conversation shining through his voice.

“Yes. You are.” Dagon glanced up, looking at the sky. The sun was just beginning to set, and the colors of the sunset were beginning to come through. “You have 72 hours. Shoo.”

“Aight, see ya in a few days!” Billy said, casually saluting Dagon with two fingers as he began to back off, away from the leygate. Machiavelli gave a small wave to Dagon, who just nodded in response, and followed after the American. 

“So Niccolò Machiavelli has a curfew?” Billy asked once they were out of Dagon’s earshot.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Machiavelli responded, though he did smile a little.

Billy laughed. “Sure, sure. Oh, by the way…,” Billy stuck his hand into his pocket and drew out a few dollar bills, folded neatly and held together by a rubber band. He held the money out towards Machiavelli. “Figured I should give you the change. Thanks again for the cash for my car.”

Machiavelli shook his head, reached out, and closed Billy’s hand. “There’s no need. I have enough money as is.”

“Are you sure?” Billy asked, still seeming somewhat uncertain about keeping the cash.

“Of course. Really, don’t worry about it.” Machiavelli said with a smile. “I’m more interested in what type of car you bought. You do seem to be fairly invested in them.”

Billy’s entire face lit up, and he shoved the money back into his pocket. “Oh you know exactly what I want to talk about, don’t you? C’mon, c’mon, I’ll show you.” He said excitedly, grabbing Machiavelli by the arm and practically dragging him along.

“I had to park it a little ways away because I don’t want to test it driving all the way up to the leygate because y’know, it’s new, and we’ll be driving for a while, and I’m not ruining this one immediately after those anpu trashed my Victoria. Also, it looks amazing and I’m prepared to put all my money into it.” Billy was talking excitedly as he practically dragged Machiavelli along after him. 

Machiavelli didn’t mind, really. He’d like to think that he and Billy were… friends. Somewhat, at least. Of course, the only other person Machiavelli really counted as being close to a friend was Dagon, and Dagon was only there because Machiavelli had saved his life. However, the fish god wasn’t human, so did he count as a person? Machiavelli thought so, considering Dagon’s intelligence, but he doubted other people would. He did trust Billy enough to begin to open up, to tell him more about himself. They were good acquaintances, Machiavelli decided. It was a little more than likely that they would become proper friends. However, Machiavelli had noticed how easily Billy interacted with everything around him while managing to keep himself separate. Like a single brushstroke of color that wasn’t blended enough to blend into the sky.

Deep down, Machiavelli was hoping Billy would let him become his friend. 

He didn’t know how to explain it even to himself, really, but the best conclusion he could come to was that he just didn’t want to shut this one person out.

It was around this time in his internal monologue that Machiavelli realized he’d been so lost in sorting his own mind out that he'd completely missed what Billy had been saying.

“So basically that’s how I settled on this one. Thought really, look at it. It wasn’t much of a choice.” Billy said, beaming as he turned the bend with Machiavelli and presented a gleaming bright red Thunderbird convertible.

“Well, you certainly have good taste,” Machiavelli said, hoping that he could act like he’d been paying attention to what Billy had been saying. 

“Why, thank you! I’m quite happy with my decision, and the color is definitely a bonus. I just think red is a great color, y’know? It’s my aura color too, just a shade or two off from the paint on the car, actually.” Billy said, talking fast, almost like there were too many things he wanted to say and not enough time. He looked up at Machiavelli, blue eyes glittering with excitement. “It’s probably right that you get to help me break it in properly, considering that you basically paid for it. Thanks again for that, you really didn’t have to.”

“Of course I had to. You spent so much of the walk back talking about the adventures you’d gone on in your Ford Victoria, ensuring that I knew exactly how much you were going to miss it, that it seems wrong not to. I also said I would pay for it while we were trying to drive away from the anpu, and I always keep my word.” Machiavelli said, grey eyes tracing over the car.

“I like a guy who keeps his word,” Billy said, grinning. “Now c’mon, let’s get going. We can get to that Shadowrealm before sundown with me driving.” Billy said, letting go of the Italian’s arm and getting his keys out of his pocket.

Machiavelli put his bag in the trunk before he got into the passenger seat of the Thunderbird, settling in for the drive as Billy started up the car.

Billy turned the radio on, fiddling with the dial until he caught a proper signal. He was relaxed, as always, putting on a pair of ray-bans and leaning back in the driver’s seat, letting the wind run through his hair. Machiavelli paused for a moment, noticing all the differences in Billy’s appearance compared to the first time they had met. His hair was longer, curling out and around his face, he wore a pair of considerably worn blue jeans, the sunglasses were new, and so was the jean jacket Billy was wearing. But he was still Billy. Same blue eyes, same smattering of freckles across his face, same grin with two prominent front teeth, same overall humor.

Time had changed the outlaw’s appearance, but not his personality. Machiavelli found himself somewhat hoping that Billy would manage to keep it that way as time went on. 

As the pair of immortals drove—Billy rambling on about dogs then cats then birds then cats again and then horses while Machiavelli listened and added his thoughts—time passed quite faster than the Italian had expected. Before he knew it, Billy was parking the car in a forest made up of trees taller than Machiavelli had ever seen.

Billy’s eyes were alight with excitement as he and Machiavelli got out of the car. The Italian could almost feel the anticipation coming off of the American in waves.

“Well, you seem quite excited about this Shadowrealm,” Machiavelli said, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“I mean, the place is nice! Besides, who doesn’t love a good break once in a while?” Billy replied, grinning up at Machiavelli.

“People who dedicate themselves solely to their work. Which I will say I usually consider myself to be. However…” Machiavelli trailed off.

“However…?” Billy asked, hesitant like he almost wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

“I’m beginning to believe that perhaps locking myself up in my house and only leaving when I’m needed isn’t the best way to go about living. So here we are.” Machiavelli said, gesturing to the towering trees around them, turning, tilting his head up to face the sky.

Billy seemed to relax a bit and smiled. “Yeah, here we are. C’mon, it’s not that far.” the outlaw began walking, Machiavelli beside him. 

“Hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I genuinely don’t know how you could possibly spend your time all locked up in there. I mean, sure, home is supposed to be secure, make you feel comfortable, but there are so many places to go. I mean, just in this Shadowrealm there are wonders that are worth seeing in any lifetime, and after those, there are the worlds bordering this one and the ones bordering those and uh, probably the ones bordering those. Also don’t you miss the sun? Sky? Birds? Plants?” Billy asked after the pair of immortals had been walking for a while.

Machiavelli tilted his head, thinking to himself in silence for a moment or two. “I’ve thought about that a few times before, I believe. The thing is, most of the time I don’t miss it unless I actually begin to think about it. The sun and plants aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, birds I can just glance out a window to see, the sky will always be there. As for Shadowrealms… well. Because of my rather well-known affiliations to the Dark Elders, I’m not very welcome in more than a few of them, many others no-one with the ability to die should ever step foot in, and others are either out of my reach, not a place I’m interested in or unsuitable for Dagon.” He spoke slowly, picking his words carefully. Machiavelli wasn’t used to people asking questions like this about him. After all, the only people he really interacted with were a fish god, a Magician who’d probably lost his mind, a few immortals he’d met once and doubted he’d see again. his enemies, and himself.

“I think that makes some sense to me. Ok, so follow-up question: if a Shadowrealm being suitable for Dagon is a deciding factor, why isn’t he tagging along?” Billy asked.

“Oh, I certainly had a time convincing him not to. He doesn’t really like you. Now, trust me when I say that there’s no real fault on your part, you’re actually quite similar to someone that both he and I counted as a close friend.” Machiavelli responded, still talking carefully, but it was masked well enough. He sounded like he was just talking casually now.

“So is he just slow to trust, the type to judge on looks or first impressions, or just quick to loath?” Billy pried, obviously curious. Maybe too curious, Machiavelli thought grimly to himself.

“He’s… complicated. More so than you’d expect from someone who’s basically a fish-man. He’s lost people, maybe too many, and that makes him protective. I haven’t asked him for the specifics, as they are his past. They are his secrets to keep, and not mine to question.” Machiavelli’s tone made the fact that he wasn’t going to be explaining Dagon’s trust habits further perfectly clear.

“Alright. So hey, moving on, do you have a favorite tree?” Billy said. A flawless shift in conversation.

“I- A favorite tree?” Machiavelli stammered. Of all the subjects to switch to… trees? That was admittedly something that Machiavelli had never been expecting.

“Yeah. It’s not something people think about often but I think I like oak trees the best. They’re easy to climb.” Billy stated casually.

“I… Well, I don’t think I have a favorite. Cherry laurel is nice, I suppose, or perhaps birch?” Machiavelli said, speaking slowly, because how are you supposed to respond to that question when you don’t have a favorite tree?

“Huh. Dunno if I’ve seen a cherry laurel. They sound pretty though. Y’know, where I grew up it was mainly just desert. Forests are a fun change from that. There’s so much more…,” Billy gestured vaguely around him. “I dunno. Just more.”

“Hm, true. I’ve always preferred cities myself. Just the-“ Machiavelli cut off as he took a step and felt the signature snap of magic that meant he was entering a Shadowrealm.

And oh Billy hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d been talking about how beautiful everything was.

The fog, which wrapped around everything, drifting in swirls and shifting in a sort of ever-present gentle breeze, did in fact look like it held sunbeams within it. The trees may have been taller here as well, though you couldn’t exactly tell, considering that they disappeared into the fog about twenty feet up. Everything looked somewhat like it was the early morning, trapped in that moment where the sun just begins to peek through the trees and sets the world ablaze with soft oranges and yellows. There was even a shimmering layer of dew on everything.

Billy was beaming, already grabbing Machiavelli’s arm and pulling him towards something.

Machiavelli was beginning to think that he should get out of the house more, see more places, perhaps.

Did you know time runs differently in different Shadowrealms?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Any feedback is greatly appreciated, thank you! :)


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh wow fancy seeing you here, please don't stab me"

Chapter Six

“The last time I trusted you to go out with him you didn’t follow the one real constraint I put on you, sir,” Dagon growled, crossing his arms and switching through various languages as he spoke.  
  


“That last time was also a trip to a neighboring Shadowrealm, and while we may not have made it back in time, the whole excursion was a very welcome break, and no one got hurt. So really, I don’t think there’s much to be mad about. We both apologized for being late, and, of course, for inconveniencing you.” Machiavelli responded as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. “Furthermore, it’s just a concert. There really isn’t much that could go wrong. And I’ve been wrapped up in keeping an eye on not only France but the many conflicts America’s managed to churn up recently. A break will be good for me.”  
  


“So you’re going to go _to_ _America?_ To combat stress caused _by America?_ ” Dagon asked, in an almost rare show of attitude.  
  


“Yes. I’m going to go to America for the evening, I’m going to go to an Elvis concert with Billy, and I am intent on having a good time.” Machiavelli responded curtly, turning his head slightly to look at his companion through the mirror.

Dagon grunted and crossed his arms. He’d made his distaste perfectly clear, and wasn’t about to press the matter farther than he had to. If Machiavelli was set on going to a concert, he was going to go with or without the fish god’s approval. The Italian could be a very stubborn man when he had his mind set on something, especially when that something was something he wanted.  
  


“Oh don’t be like that. I know you care but you have to let me go out sometimes. I am but a human and I am beginning to realize that staying locked up in my home in my free time, while safer when it comes to the preservation of my identity, isn’t exactly good for me.” Machiavelli said, turning away from the mirror to properly face Dagon.  
  


“It’s not you going out that I have a problem with, sir. If you remember, I am always telling you to do something other than lock yourself away.” Dagon grunted. “It’s the outlaw I don’t like.”  
  


“I know. Your very obvious distaste for him is precisely the reason why I’m not letting you tag along. You’re going to be defensive.” Machiavelli said calmly.  
  


“Sir I do not act _defensively_.” Dagon said. “I act with caution.”  
  


Machiavelli waved his hand dismissively in the air as he moved past Dagon. “That’s you rewording defensive. You know I can mind well enough on my own.”  
  


“I know you can, sir. My question is: Can he?” Dagon muttered.  
  


“He’s survived long enough, I doubt that he can’t.”  
  


_________________________________________________

Billy was there (of course he was) waiting patiently for Machiavelli when the Italian made it through the leygate. He was perched atop the hood of his Thunderbird (which he had only driven up to the leygate after he’d tested it out and made sure the drive wouldn’t harm the car) and was _vigorously_ scribbling something down in a book when Machiavelli landed in California. He’d found himself a pretty decent suit, but he still wore his pair of dusty cowboy boots, though the spurs were apparently polished for the occasion. He looked up from whatever he was writing down when he felt the energy charge from the Leygate and grinned as he spotted Machiavelli.  
  


“Hey, there you are!” He said, clicking his pen shut and closing the book. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d show up.”  
  


“My apologies, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Machiavelli said, slipping his hands into his pockets and walking towards Billy.

  
Billy slid off the hood of his car, putting his pen in his back pocket. His eyes were already alight with excitement. “Nah, it’s no problem, don’t worry about it. We’ve got plenty of time to get there.”  
  


“Good. I’m glad I haven’t made us late.” Machiavelli replied, smiling a little.  
  


“Psh, with me driving, there’s little we can’t be on time for,” Billy stated, laughing a little and walking over to the driver’s side door of his Thunderbird.  
  


“Well, aren’t you bold.” Machiavelli remarked, walking over to the passenger side door and pulling it open as Billy let out a bark of a laugh and slid into his own seat.  
  


“I dunno if it counts as bold if I know it’s _true_ ,” Billy said. “But being bold has got me into plenty of scrapes before, I can tell you that for sure.”  
  


Machiavelli shut his car door and settled into the seat as Billy turned the key and started the convertible. “Hey did I ever tell you about the time that I almost got my knees kicked in by some moth-looking man-thing? I have no idea what it was but oh boy out of all the times I’ve been too bold for my own good, that’s definitely up in the top ten. Like, it’s number three, it’s _way_ up there.” Billy turned the car around and pressed down on the accelerator, easily beginning to make his way to the actual road.  
  


Machiavelli, though he was admittedly somewhat put off by both the description of whatever Billy fought as ‘moth-looking man-thing’ and the fact that Billy apparently had a tier list of times when he was too bold, was also insanely curious. “No, that’s most definitely a story of yours I haven’t yet heard.”  
  


Billy tossed his head back for a moment and barked a laugh. “Oh boy. Ok so this was a few years back, basically, I was on the East Coast, in like, West Virginia or something? It could definitely have been farther south though, I wasn’t paying much attention to which states I was in, but I was in that area. So. I’m just waiting for the bus so I could get to the leygate without having to walk for longer than I have to, and it’s late, the last bus already came and went, so I’m waiting for the first of the morning.” Billy turned off of the dirt road and onto the paved one as he spoke. “So I’m bored, right? It’s around maybe two in the morning, and I’m wide awake because it’s not one of the nights that I actually _need_ to sleep. So I’m sitting at the bus stop, leaning against the sign that signaled it _as_ a bus stop, pretty much entirely zoned out, until I feel something watching me. I’m unnerved and on edge pretty much immediately because the place I’m in is pretty wooded, there’s plenty of places for something—or someone—to hide, and a ton of cover. Now, I look around, trying to pinpoint where I’m being watched from, y’know? So I look over and there’s these huge red eyes staring at me through the trees…”  
  


Billy continued, telling the story of his bold fight against a cryptid he had no name for with increasing energy, and constant jokes. Machiavelli found himself plainly laughing out loud at points, a smile breaking through his usually neutral mask. Billy did have such a way with words that managed to incite emotion even in the Italian, who had learned centuries ago to control his feelings and keep them under strict and constant surveillance. It was quite lovely, he thought, to feel comfortable enough around someone he’d only met on occasion to laugh. Admittedly it was somewhat odd to him, but he’d really only been interacting with members of the government and Dagon for more than a couple lifetimes, and every single one of them was as poor in humor as Billy was rich. Charismatic as politicians in need of public approval and vote may be, there really is nothing that can combat the pure unfiltered and improvisational comedy. The type of comedy that Billy had what appeared to be an unlimited store of. The outlaw could make a joke out of almost everything, it seemed, though he also seemed to understand the weight that his words—or the subjects he spoke of—had. During those times when Machiavelli and Billy had spoken, times when the pair of them had simply exchanged stories or opinions, the Italian had caught a glimpse of seriousness behind the light and carefree face Billy put on. A glimpse of some internal person the outlaw either kept from the outside world or kept from those who he hadn’t yet put his full trust in. It was a balancing act the likes of which Machiavelli understood the ins and outs of completely. A game he had seen played by both the members of the governments he had ‘guided’, and people as commonplace as shopkeepers. In fact, he himself had taken part in that balancing game of personality on numerous occasions. After all, one can’t simply fake their own death and remain in the same country while acting the same as they had before. It could raise suspicion. Of course, it wasn’t like Machiavelli interacted with many people who would venture out of whichever city he was residing in and recognize him, but it was far better to be as safe as possible when it came down to it, so personalities were switched, and looks were altered. It was but one of immortality’s oh so numerous curses, and though Machiavelli dwelled on it more often than may be healthy, he didn’t today. Today he was in high spirits, and his plans for the night were only positive, and therefore did not include pondering things like the deaths he was forced to fake. This evening was meant to be a break from such thoughts, and Machiavelli wasn’t about to succumb to them now.  
  


As a matter of fact, Machiavelli was almost certain Billy would do an excellent job of keeping those more somber of his thoughts at bay. He had come to realize that the outlaw was rather good at that.  
  


“So yeah, that’s the sort of unnerving tale of how I fought some giant winged critter and still made it back to California in one piece. Pretty good one, eh?” Billy said, finishing his story and grinning at Machiavelli.   
  


“Of course. Although, that is the usual as all of the stories you tell me are quite good. In fact, I don’t know if I could actually pick a favorite out of the ones you’ve told.” The Italian responded, returning Billy’s grin with a small one of his own.  
  


“Aw psh, you flatter me,” Billy said, turning his head back to face the road, but not before Machiavelli saw his face redden and burn in embarrassment. “I mean really, I know I can be a good storyteller, but… you actually like all my stories? _All of them?_ ” The outlaw asked, almost tentatively.  
  


“Of course. Why would I not? You have a great talent for channeling energy into your words, and it makes listening to you wonderfully entertaining.” Machiavelli stated matter-of-factly.  
  


“I- Wow. Thank you.” Billy said, laughing somewhat nervously. “Most of the people I know really just brush them off most of the time.”  
  


“Oh now _that_ I find hard to believe,” Machiavelli said, almost scoffing. “Unless it’s being told at an inconvenient time, who would turn down or brush off a good story? You can learn many things from them, turn time being wasted into time being very well spent, and well, entertainment is something we all need and don’t find often enough.”  
  


“See this is _exactly_ my point when it comes down to whether or not stories are worth hearing though!” Billy exclaimed, smacking his palm down on the steering wheel. “Entertainment is invaluable! And while at my core I may just be a cowboy with an overinflated reputation, there have been _many_ times when I’ve started much-needed parties just because people were there and they needed to have a good time. There’s nothing more valuable than good memories, I think. And hey, even the bad memories can be turned into good stories, Mr. Machiavelli!”  
  


“Oh please, just call Niccolò,” Machiavelli said, waving his hand vaguely in the air. “We are in practically perfect agreement on the matter. Verbal storytelling should never be lost, no matter how much technology advances. Writing those same stories down, keeping proper documentation of things. is of course also something that should be done, but few things come even close to being comparable to a good story being told by someone in person.”  
  


“Yeah, definitely,” Billy said, nodding energetically. “I do like sitting down with a good book if I can get the chance to, but I grew up listening to people tell stories, and I told my stories in turn. There’s even been times when all I could offer in payment were my stories, and they've bought me quite a few rooms to sleep in for a night.”  
  


“Ah, a story is indeed priceless. And yours are a fine example of their value.” Machiavelli said. “Oh, did you know Shakespeare is an immortal? I believe he’s currently residing in North London, though I have yet to receive confirmation of that.”  
  


“I mean, I’m not surprised, really. We heard about him even out in the West, and out there there weren’t a lot of us who were able to get much of a proper education. I went for a while, but we moved away from where the school I was going to was, and I was only able to learn most of the things they teach on and off after that. I did read a lot when I was younger though. It was one thing I could do pretty well, and it kept me out of trouble. Uh, for a while, that is. Obviously, it didn’t do a very good job after a time, but hey, not everything is a permanent solution.” Billy said, tilting his head slightly to the side and getting a far-off look in his eye. “Times were pretty good back then, all things considered…” He shook his head, seeming to draw himself back to the present. “Uh, anyway. We should get to the concert in a bit. We’re just entering the city now.”  
  


Machiavelli nodded, leaning back in his seat somewhat. “Alright.”  
  


An almost sudden silence fell over the pair, and after a minute or so of it, Billy flicked on the radio, quickly finding a signal, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along to the beat of the song. It was some American artist Machiavelli hadn’t heard before. He made a note to see if he could find the song later.  
  


Billy hummed along to the song, or so it seemed at first, but the tune the outlaw played dipped in different parts, rose in others. It was definitely similar to the one on the radio, but it differed in its own ways. Machiavelli found it somewhat… charming. There were in fact, many things about Billy that could be considered charming.   
  


Billy’s humming faded as the area around them became more urban, and they entered the city proper. He began to keep a closer eye on the street signs, watching for the right place to turn. Billy handled the car easily like he’d been driving his entire life, and Machiavelli calmly felt almost jealous about it, because he honestly couldn’t drive to save his life. But his skill in driving wasn’t relevant so he just pushed it out of his mind as Billy pulled into a parking lot.  
  


“Alright, here we are,” Billy said, grinning and at this point practically vibrating with excitement.  
  


“Here we are,” Machiavelli said quietly, smiling. He was more excited than he thought he’d be, considering that he was here more for a break and not the music itself, but the energy was certainly in the air.  
  


The pair of immortals chatted quite excitedly as they made their way to the entrance, handed over their tickets, and found their seats. Billy was happy, Machiavelli was happy, things were good.  
  


Until the backup dancers walked out.  
  


And right at the edge of the lineup was a girl who looked to be 17, but Machiavelli knew immediately that it was just an appearance. After all, her shock of bright red hair and unblinking green eyes was enough proof of that for the Italian. He’d met her before. Multiple times, actually. The last time they’d met was in Stalingrad and she’d kicked him through a door. A closed door. He knew he’d basically deserved it that time, but he was still mad about it. And the other times they’d had the misfortune of running into each other hadn’t exactly been fun experiences either. Of course, he’d known that he’d meet her again, they did both reside on the Earth Shadowrealm, but did it have to be here? Now? He had no assets at his disposal, and he was trying to get a break, not get his bones broken.   
  


Maybe he could leave now, get out of here before she spotted him. He could say he needed the bathroom and then wait in the car for Billy. He could explain it all later. Billy was young, he’d probably only heard of Scathatch—oh. Too late. She’d spotted him.  
  


Billy leaned over and tapped Machiavelli on the arm. “Hey, you got _really_ tense all of a sudden there. Are you ok?”  
  


“Billy, have you ever heard of Scathatch the Shadow?” Machiavelli asked, his voice barely a whisper.  
  


Billy blinked and shook his head. “No, can’t say I have. Why?”  
  


“She’s a legend, really, a warrior of incomparable skill. Next Generation and likely capable of taking down most any Elder. She’s also the backup dancer with the red hair.” Machiavelli responded, keeping his voice low.   
  


“I’m gonna take a wild guess here, but that’s not good news, is it?” Billy asked quietly, looking to the stage, and to Scathatch.  
  


Machiavelli shook his head. At this point, he was ignoring practically everyone and everything else happening in the room. Scathatch stared at him from onstage, and though she carried out the dance routine in perfect sync with the other dancers, her eyes never left him. And while the hatred in her eyes would go unnoticed by most everyone else, Machiavelli picked up on it all too easily.  
  


“So what are we gonna do? Ditch the place now and escape?” Billy asked hurriedly, easily picking up on the urgency of the situation.  
  


Machiavelli shook his head again, despite the heavy coil of fear that was winding tighter and tighter in the center of his chest and his instinct to get out and get away from the Shadow. “She’s spotted us. I doubt she’ll dismiss our presence as coincidental, what with the fights the two of us have gotten into over the years… If we leave now she’ll just assume we were only here to confirm her location and track us down. Or she’ll at least track me down. It’s an encounter I doubt I’ll be alive at the end of.”  
  


“So… what do we do?” Billy asked, his eyes on Machiavelli.  
  


“Try to enjoy ourselves, I suppose. If we stay the whole time it might work in our favor? Maybe work to convince her that we’re actually just here for Elvis.” Machiavelli mumbled, but he could hear the obvious doubt in his own voice as he spoke.   
  


“...And if it comes down to fighting?” Billy asked.  
  


Machiavelli tore his gaze away from the stage and looked into Billy’s eyes. “If it comes down to a fight then we hope that we have enough time to explain ourselves before she kills us.”  
  


Billy paused. But nodded, and looked back to the stage, focusing on Elvis as though he hadn’t even registered the presence of the backup dancers. Machiavelli tried to do the same, but he could feel Scathatch’s glare, and his fear only increased as the show went on. But he kept himself composed as much as possible. He was fairly sure his face remained passive, though he knew he was still visibly tense. Billy had at some point gently set his arm on the armrest between his and Machiavelli’s seats, his elbow making contact with the Italian’s upper arm. The touch was, admittedly, one of the things keeping Machiavelli grounded at this point. And making himself focus on just the touch, only the touch, was enough to keep him from just getting up and running.  
  


The show seemed to last longer than the many many years of Machiavelli’s life ever had, but finally, _finally_ , it was over. Once Scathatch was off stage, Machiavelli was able to relax a little, not much, but a little, and he was able to keep himself from just bolting and dragging Billy along.  
  


Both immortals made haste for the door, walking at a pace that wasn’t fast enough to draw attention but also wasn’t exactly a leisurely stroll. They were both glancing around, keeping an eye on their surroundings, just in case. But they made it to Billy’s Thunderbird without issue, and they were out of the parking lot surprisingly quickly, considering the traffic of all the other people leaving the concert. After a few very tense minutes Machiavelli let out a breath and relaxed into his seat. Admittedly, he was still scared, but it was beginning to ebb away somewhat. He doubted Scathatch would let his appearance go unchecked, but hopefully, she’d leave Billy out of it. Billy had apparently never met her, never even heard of her, so he just might be safe. Machiavelli himself just needed to get back to France, where he had the advantage of control.   
  


Billy switched radio stations, finding something calmer to play as he drove, making it out of the more densely populated part of the city, and onto a less crowded road. The way back to the leygate wasn’t exactly a short one, nor was it exactly easy, but Billy and his Thunderbird seemed completely capable of handling it fine, and they’d only been driving for fifteen minutes, it was likely that Scathatch wouldn’t be on their trail for another hour or so.   
  


Or at least Machiavelli thought and continued to think for another fifteen minutes.  
  


And then a small figure dropped from the top of a building onto the road right in front of the car.  
  


Billy slammed his foot on the breaks, snapping the wheel to the side and sending the car spinning and skidding to a stop right in front of the Warrior Maid herself.  
  


“Machiavelli,” Scathatch said, glaring at the Italian with obvious distaste.  
  


Machiavelli stiffened, jaw muscles tightening, that coil of fear in his chest tightening again. “Scathatch.” He said, somewhat impressed in his own ability to keep his voice from trembling.   
  


“I’m going to give you… eh… two minutes to explain why you’re here and why I shouldn’t slit your throat.” Scathatch said, her accent bitter and her voice as sharp as the blade she drew from one of the sheathes on her back.  
  


“I only came for the Elvis concert, you shouldn’t kill me because I’m not here to do any harm to you or anyone you may be allied with,” Machiavelli said, speaking quickly, his eyes eyeing the Shadow’s blade and the fine dust of powder that rested on it. Iron powder, he supposed. Next Generation was capable of wielding it. He supposed the Shadow had a dusting of the stuff on the inside of her sheathes. The increased amount of iron in a wound would significantly slow down any magical healing attempts.   
  


“You really expect me to believe that you, Niccolò Machiavelli of all people, is here for an _Elvis Presley_ concert?” Scathatch said, scoffing. “A man with the reputation of being a master of lies, and _that’s_ the best you can come up with?”  
  


“I suppose it takes the truth to fool you, Shadow,” Machiavelli said, his voice hitching slightly as the Warrior brought her blade to his throat.  
  


It was at this point that Billy cleared his throat, drawing attention to his presence after having stayed silent for so long.   
  


It was also at this point that Machiavelli realized he and Scathatch had been talking in Latin, and because of that, Billy hadn’t understood a word they’d been saying.  
  


“I uh, I hate to interrupt your chat but I can only speak and understand English and Spanish, so if you two could maybe accommodate for that…?” He asked carefully.  
  


“Why? You’ve no business in our argument.” Scathatch said plainly, in English.  
  


“No, don’t be rude. I believe we’ve forgotten our manners, Scathatch.” Machiavelli said, also switching over to English. He gestured for Billy to introduce himself, and the outlaw reached a hand out towards the Warrior.  
  


“William Bonney, ma’am, most everyone calls me Billy.” He said, flashing a smile at Scathatch.  
  


The Shadow narrowed her eyes, sizing Billy up. She didn’t shake his hand. “Scathatch. I’d say it was good to meet you, but I’d be lying.”  
  


Billy dropped his hand, but not his smile. “Well, Miss Scathatch, I think you might have misunderstood why Niccolò and I are here. We were only here for the concert, I got the tickets, had no idea you were a backup dancer for Elvis, and if we had we wouldn’t have gone to the concert. We didn’t mean anything by it.”  
  


Scathatch glanced at Machiavelli, then back to Billy, furrowing her brow. “So Machiavelli has told me… Though his word is worth about as much as dirt.”  
  


Machiavelli winced internally at that, but he was sure not to let the insult he took from the statement show on his face. “I can assure you, Scathatch, we’re both telling the truth.”  
  


“And I hate lying,” Billy added.  
  


Scathatch tilted her head slightly to the side, glancing between the Italian and the American. “Hang on… Oh Machiavelli you _snake_ , you’re using half-truths, aren’t you? Are you on a date?” She asked. It was a question meant entirely to tease the Italian. She knew he didn’t exactly keep many people close. “I mean, I didn’t take you for the type, but I also can’t really say I’m _surprised_.”  
  


There was a real second there that Machiavelli’s entire mind went blank and all he did was stare at the Shadow before managing to stammer out a surprised “No. No, we are not on a date.”  
  


Scathatch raised her eyebrows.  
  


Billy shifted in his seat “It’s not like that, ma’am. We’re just friends. Besides, I doubt I have a way I could properly ask him out romantically. _And_ I’m terrible with plans. The whole thing would probably just be awkward and ugh- I dunno I just hate it when things are awkward.”  
  


Scathatch surveyed the couple for another few moments, before sighing and resheathing her sword. She pointed to Machiavelli. “I’m going to spare you for now. Only because I think you’re telling the truth, and _that’s_ major character development. However, if it is proven to me that you are yet again lying… well. Begging and negotiation will be futile. Now make an effort not to come anywhere near me in the future because I will _willingly_ end your years.” She smiled, her pair of vampire fangs glinting in what light was provided by the street lamps. It wasn't a kind smile. In fact, it was terrifying. But then again, that was probably the point, and it worked.   
  


“Noted.” Machiavelli said.  
  


“Good. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind.” Scathatch said cheerfully.  
  


“Nice meeting you ma’am!” Billy said as he began driving again.  
  


Machiavelli kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching Scathatch as she scaled the wall of a building and disappeared into the shadows. It wasn’t like he was about to just not keep an eye on Scathatch while Billy drove away. He had no trust in the Warrior.  
  


”Well she seemed nice.” Billy said after a minute or so of driving.  
  


“She was being oddly polite. I’m surprised she didn’t casually stab me before letting us go, and even that is less damage than she normally deals.” Machiavelli responded.  
  


“Huh. Remind me not to get on her bad side if I see her again.” Billy said, glancing over his shoulder.  
  


Machiavelli sighed. “It’s definitely not somewhere I’d recommend being. And I can say so from experience.”   
  


“Can I ask why you’re on her bad side?” Billy questioned.  
  


“Ah, I suppose it is my turn to tell a story….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Any feedback is greatly appreciated, thank you! :)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resident idiots get sent on a mission where they are not, in fact, mailmen
> 
> They are also met with a very slight problem in accommodations, but they can figure something out

Chapter Seven

After his encounter with Scathatch, Machiavelli made an effort to keep his visits to California short. Now that he’d run into the Shadow once and gotten away without being killed, he wasn’t keen on going to risk  _ actually _ having his years cut short. Of course, it did mean he didn’t get to see or spend much time with Billy, which weighed on his mind more than he expected it to, but it was fine. Billy had other friends, it wasn’t like he would miss Machiavelli much.

As 1960 ended and 1961 began, Machiavelli and Dagon celebrated yet another new year. It felt somewhat emptier than usual. Nothing changed in regards to celebration, Dagon got his week-long trip to the coast, Machiavelli got his usual week of cold isolation. He usually liked it, as it meant he could have the house to himself which was something he did actually enjoy despite the emptiness. But for whatever reason, this year it was more lonely. Almost forlorn. Machiavelli was used to lonely holidays, of course, he was. 

Sometimes he would be invited to a party, usually by a nervous employee who was really only giving him an invite because they were afraid of what he’d think if he  _ didn’t _ get one, but he almost always turned the offer down. Occasionally he would go, really just to keep up public appearances, but it was never worth it. Just another event where he pretended to be excited about the holidays, talked about the son he lied about having, talked about the news, listened to people ramble on about their own lives. Sometimes they would play trivia games, which was the one small event that Machiavelli took some genuine enjoyment in. Sometimes people tried to see if they knew some bit of trivia that Machiavelli didn’t. It was very rare that they did, and it was always something to do with modern entertainment. Which celebrity was caught in whatever scandal, what motion picture had a hidden meaning to it, nothing Machiavelli bothered to busy himself with normally.

It didn’t exactly hate that he felt for the holiday season… but he definitely didn’t  _ like _ it. Really he held a very strong overwhelmingly negative indifference towards it.

But in the end, it was just another year, and Machiavelli had already made it through four hundred and ninety-one of them. Another was nothing new

January came and went, a month Machiavelli spent it checking his plans, running through the list of subtle nudges he would give that would guide the government in the direction he wanted it to go in, checking and double-checking everything though he knew he didn’t need to. And then February came and brought all its customary bleakness with it. 

Luckily for him—or rather, unluckily—Aten had plans of his own for him.

Machiavelli had been somewhat bored and was considering going out and searching for some new book to read, focusing on tracking down proper antique books, perhaps. It would give him something to do, at least. But he didn’t have time to debate the idea further as a sharp knock came at the door. Knowing this usually meant Billy was here with a message for Aten because who else was going to be walking up to his door in February, Machiavelli was up and at the door as soon as he could.

But all there was at the doorstep was what looked like a teenager wearing sunglasses and a backpack. Machiavelli knew that this was not a human teen, this was a sack man. And he held a message in one extended hand, the envelope addressed in his master’s sharp lettering. The Italian took the envelope, nodded to the sack man, and shut the door. Well, that was admittedly somewhat disappointing to Machiavelli, as he had been sort of hoping to see Billy, but it was fine. Machiavelli glanced down at the envelope, skimming the hieroglyphs scratched onto the back of it, but not fully registering them for another moment.

_ Machiavelli _ .

The immortal paused, freezing in his steps, and double-checked. 

_ Machiavelli _ .

Yes, that was  _ his _ name written there. This envelope must contain orders from his master, not a message for Quetzalcoatl like he’d first assumed.

Machiavelli made his way to his office, smoothly slitting the envelope open with the letter opener of his fingers and taking out the parchment within.

_ Machiavelli. _

_ I believe that you and Anubis’s anpu have had an encounter once before. This next mission I’m sending you on will undoubtedly bring you in contact with them again. _

_ Anubis has formed an unfortunate habit of making some idiotic choices. Sticking his snout where it’s neither welcome nor needed. Recently he has managed to get his claws on a particular artifact that Quetzalcoatl and I had personally worked together to secure. _

_ You are my chosen negotiator. I have others I could send, but I’ve decided that you are the one who is the most well suited for dealing with this particular situation. Least likely to spark a grudge with Anubis or get him into something he can’t get out of without hurting himself. _

_ All you need to do is get the artifact back. If you mention that it’s something he recently stole, he will know what you are talking about. You may also want to know that he is a surprisingly terrible liar, even worse when you put him under pressure, and if you can assert authority you won’t have a problem getting what I need from him. For someone with a Shadowrealm populated by the Dead, making it his duty to guard and live amongst those souls held within it, he is pitifully spineless.  _

_ I have no reason to believe that this will be a hard job for you. A map is enclosed in the envelope with this message. All the important locations are marked on it. _

_ I do not know whether Quetzalcoatl will send a servant to accompany you or not, but if he does send someone in they will likely be a fighter. Backup in case you get yourself into trouble. I know you aren’t a fighting type.  _

_ The negotiation is up to you. _

_ I have taken the liberty of booking your hotel room. You will take the leygates marked on the map, be there at the date written on the back. _

_ Do not fail. _

  
  


Machiavelli leaned back in his seat, rereading the letter and looking the map over. It was marked with the necessary information: leygates, Shadowrealm entrances, landmarks, noted residence of a handful of other Elders.

The Italian sighed, folded the parchment, and opened up his secret room. His own little library of knowledge on the world hidden from the oblivious.

So what did he know about Anubis?

He knew the role the Elder had played in the Egyptian pantheon, of course, the god of mummification, protector of the dead. He knew that he had created the Anpu, as well as a smaller portion of other somewhat mixed beasts. He knew that Anubis, as well as Aten, were close to the cat goddess Bastet. A relation of some sorts, perhaps.

But the real questions were: who was Anubis outside of his role in humani society? Who was he to the Elders in general? And, possibly the most important question, what side did he fall on? Did he wish the Elders to return to Earth, rule it as they had over ten thousand years ago? Or did he wish the Elders to stay in hiding, leaving the humani to their own devices?

From Aten’s letter, Machiavelli had easily figured out that Anubis was far from the type to stand up to people, almost definitely the type to fall in line. Perhaps he was a soldier once, used to obeying orders from a higher figure. Perhaps giving in under the pressure of authority or his peers was a survival tactic in his time. Either way, he’d found his own place amongst the Elders, in an underworld Shadowrealm, apparently going after artifacts in other Elders' possession. Also from Aten’s letter, Machiavelli was able to assume that they actually knew each other. Family, maybe. He could fathom the two of them being cousins. Brothers, even. Elder family trees were extremely complicated.

It was little to go off of, and Machiavelli didn’t even know what he was supposed to be retrieving. He hated it when the Elders decided to not tell people anything that gave them a semblance of what they were actually doing. Which was hypocritical on Machiavelli’s part, but at least he made sure people  _ thought _ they knew everything about what they were doing.

Oh well. He could work something out. A few well-placed lies, half-truths, or just simple misguidance with words, could work wonders when it came to things like this.

_________________________________________________

Machiavelli stood under an awning, overnight bag slung over one shoulder, sipping a cup of coffee, eyes drifting over the crowds around him. He had no confirmation that Quetzalcoatl had decided to send anyone to accompany him, but he figured he’d wait before going through the leygate. Just in case. And who knows, maybe Billy would be sent. Machiavelli could only hope.

He’d had Dagon stay home, as the Fish God’s presence very rarely encouraged the Elders to go along with the circumstances. Often they would be far more defensive. So Machiavelli was alone for this. Unless of course—

“Well hey there partner, long time no see.” A wonderfully familiar voice said, accented with an old western American accent.

Machiavelli turned to look at Billy. His hopes had not been in vain. The outlaw was the same as always, a denim jacket pulled on over a button-up shirt had a hat on this time, but it didn’t matter to the Italian. He was honestly just happy Billy had been sent instead of… well Machiavelli didn’t know who else Quetzalcoatl had working for him, but it didn’t matter. He smiled. “It’s been less time than a few of the other breaks between our meetings.”

Billy shrugged, one of those brilliant grins of his already on his face. “Yeah. First time our bosses have actually made us hang out.”

“Hanging out isn’t exactly how I would put it… Oh, did they tell you why we’re here?” Machiavelli asked, aware of how cryptic the Elders could be, and how little information they usually gave out. The last thing he wanted was Billy going into this unprepared and getting hurt or worse.

“Ehh Nah not really. Or, nothing more than I usually get told. I know something got stolen, you’ve gotta negotiate it back, if things go south I’m here to help you get out.” Billy said. “I don’t know where we’re going, or who we’re supposed to be meeting. I don’t even know what we’re supposed to be getting.”

“Well, we’re in the same boat for that last one. Whatever we’re getting, our employers are keen to keep it a secret.” Machiavelli said, sighing slightly. “As for your first two questions… well it’ll be safer if I tell you once we get to the hotel.” He lowered his voice so that only Billy could hear him. “We don’t want anyone overhearing us”

Billy nodded, and patted Machiavelli on the arm, his smile as continuous as the cycle of time. “Of course, lead the way, Mac.”

“Ah, please don’t call me Mac. Niccolò is fine.” Machiavelli said, placing his free hand on Billy’s shoulder and beginning to guide him towards the leygate.

“My bad,” Billy said, smiling slipping his hands into his pockets. “So did your boss actually book a hotel room? I know Quet- Uh, mine, mentioned something about it but didn’t elaborate.”

“He did, apparently. I was somewhat surprised. Usually, he’ll just tell me what I’m supposed to do and then leave me to my own devices. It seems this specific job is something he’d prefer to somewhat control himself.” Machiavelli said.

“Huh, must be something important then. Although, I don’t really get left to my own devices anyway so this is pretty normal except for the hotel booking. It’s always “Billy, you have to do exactly this” or “Billy if you mess up my exact instructions I will kill you” never “Here’s a job Billy, get it done within a week, goodbye”.” Billy’s voice practically dripped with annoyance. “Honestly, you’d think I’d be trustworthy enough to just be given a job and figure it out but nooo. I’m “Too reckless” or “Prone to making impulsive decisions” or something.”

Machiavelli laughed. “Are they really wrong though? Forgive me, but you do seem to be quite reckless and impulsive.”

“Oh I never said I  _ wasn’t _ reckless and impulsive, I am  _ definitely _ reckless and impulsive. But a little recklessness and impulsivity is needed from time to time. And I also do get things done. Maybe not in the way people were expecting them to get done, but they’re still done in the end.” Billy said, grinning.

Machiavelli smiled, stepping into the gate and pulling Billy through it with him. There was a moment when the two of them stood, staring at each other for a moment the world shifted and whirled them from one place to another. When they landed both found themselves stumbling. 

“Omph- That gate, that uh, that packed a punch.” Billy said, swallowing hard and reaching out to grip Machiavelli’s forearm to stable himself.

“I doubt it’s used often. Likely draws more energy from the user because of it.” Machiavelli murmured, gripping Billy’s shoulder for balance. “No wonder our employers actually had a hotel room booked for us. We’re better off getting rest.”

“Yeah…” Billy said, swallowing hard. 

Machiavelli could taste his aura—a bitter,  _ very _ unwelcome taste—in the back of his throat, and he assumed that Billy could taste his own as well. 

“Well. We’d best be going. It seems we could both do well with a good meal.” Machiavelli said, hesitantly letting go of Billy’s shoulder.

“Oh man, now that you mention it… I  _ am _ suddenly really hungry.” Billy said, letting go of Machiavelli’s arm as his stomach growled.

“Well then, let us see what’s around, shall we?” Machiavelli said.

And off they went, spending the rest of the early evening finding a restaurant, having a fairly lovely meal, and chatting about whatever crossed their minds. Mostly just Billy rambling on about whatever new thing he’d found out about, or some story he’d remembered. Machiavelli was more than happy to listen, and for once he wasn’t going to use what he heard to get what he wanted or to further some plan. He just liked hearing Billy talk about things. Anything in general, really. As long as Billy was happily talking about it, Machiavelli was happy to listen.

The pair made their way to the hotel in high spirits, Billy was going on about cacti, rambling about a time when he’d fallen into a patch of particularly spiky ones and he’d had bits of thorns in his skin for a week before he’d gotten them all out. Machiavelli could relate somewhat, they hadn’t been cactus needles, they’d been splinters, but he’d still been picking them out of him a month or so later. But really, listening to Billy talk on and just say whatever came to his mind was always enjoyable. Machiavelli would always add his thoughts, but would mostly just let the Outlaw ramble on as he listened.

The number of stories one immortal cowboy could apparently tell was staggering. The amount of questions he could ask surpassed that number greatly, and the sheer amount of thoughts Billy could just say as they came to mind was even more than that. And no matter how much he rambled on, how much he seemed to just ramble off on useless tangents, Machiavelli was always entertained. Probably just because Billy’s immortal experience differed so vastly from his own. 

Yes, it was because they were different, Machiavelli thought. That made sense to him. He’d always been terribly curious about other immortal’s views on things. This wasn’t an exception.

Billy quieted down a bit as they stepped into the hotel lobby, looking around at the lobby and self-consciously crossing his arms over his chest. “Well this place is…  _ fancy _ .”

Machiavelli glanced at the waxed and shined marble flooring, the chandeliers, the velvet. It suddenly dawned on him how out of place Billy might feel. “My employer has some fairly extravagant tastes. Something left over from his glory days, I assume. This is likely his idea of modest accommodations.” He said, somewhat apologetically.

“Modest my ass. Don’t think I’ve stepped foot in a place this fancy, uh, ever,” Billy murmured, eyeing everything around him, the people in obviously expensive and tailored clothes, jewelry of crystal and gold and silver, the velvet furniture, the gold on almost everything. “S’ fine though. Not what I’m used to, obviously, pretty much everything here looks awfully expensive, but it could be a cool change.”

Machiavelli checked in, answering the clerk’s question about what he and Billy were in town for with a curt “Business”, and began to lead the way to the room. It was on the third floor, and the silence that stretched between the pair of immortals as they rode the elevator up was suffocating. 

Machiavelli normally didn’t mind silence. More time to think for him. Time to calculate his current situation. Time to plot what he could possibly do next. Which he could do now, technically. Think about why the two of them were actually here, rethink the air he had settled on approaching Anubis with, mentally double check what he knew and what he didn’t. But for some reason or another, that was never the mindset he defaulted to around Billy. Around most everyone else—be they immortal, Elder, or something other entirely—yes. He always defaulted to calculation and analysis. His brain was always whirring as he picked apart all the possibilities, what he could do in whatever his situation was. 

But not when it was just him and Billy.

Never when it was just him and Billy.

Which is why the tension between the two of them unnerved the Italian. He was used to Billy who could crack jokes at everything, and laugh things off with that bright smile of his and maybe a wink. But now Billy was tense, but without really looking tense. In the way that all the real tension was held in his gaze, not his stance. He stood casually, hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans, shoulders relaxed, weight shifted onto one leg. And to anyone just passing by him, he’d simply look out of place and somewhat bored. But Machiavelli noticed how his eyebrows were just so slightly furrowed, how he narrowed his eyes just slightly, how he just held every bit of subtle negativity in his gaze.

The elevator dinged as it reached the third floor, and the doors opened. The mismatched pair of men walked out of the elevator, down the hall to their room, Machiavelli unlocking the door when they reached it. And pausing before even stepping foot into the room. He sighed.

“I should have checked earlier. Oh well, let’s see if we can get a room with two beds,” He said, beginning to turn back to the hallway, but Billy stopped him.

“No, you don’t need to bother anyone about it. I’ll just sleep on the floor.”

“Wh- I- No! I’m not letting you sleep on the  _ floor _ ,” Machiavelli protested.

“Well, it’s a real tragedy you don’t get to pick where I sleep, isn’t it?” Billy said, smiling sarcastically before his gaze softened. “Trust me, I’ve slept in worse places.”

“I can just have the room switched-” Machiavelli began, but Billy was already pushing past him into the room, patting him on the arm as he went.

“What a gentleman you are. No, this is lovely, actually. Don’t think I’ve seen hotel carpet this nice in… I have never seen hotel carpet this nice but that’s beside the point,  _ the point  _ is that I will sleep just fine on the floor.” Billy said, wrestling the quilt out from under the bed’s duvet.

“Is there a point to arguing with you?” He said, smiling slightly.

“Nope. Not right now, anyway.” Billy said, stumbling slightly as he managed to pull the quilt free. “Anyway you never got around to explaining what we’re here for.”

Machiavelli sighed, and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Alright you win. Basically…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Any feedback is greatly appreciated! :)
> 
> (Also, my bad for the sudden change in how I'm chaptering things now but it makes more sense to do it this way I think)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old Immortal Italian Man Has A Mild Emotional Crisis

Chapter Eight

“No, I already said, I’m fine. It’s  _ fine _ .” Billy mumbled.  


It was currently two forty-five in the morning, and Machiavelli was perfectly aware of the fact that Billy hadn’t slept at all. Which was very obviously  _ not fine _ .

“You haven’t even dozed off,” Machiavelli said tiredly. “I can still probably get the room changed so you have a bed. Then you can be comfortable and get some sleep.”

“Ok first of all I have no idea how you know I haven’t dozed off, and second, I already said I’m  _ not _ going to make you go to all the trouble to change the room.” Billy snapped.

Machiavelli sighed. “Can we  _ compromise _ then?”

“Depends, what’s the compromise?” Billy said, shifting on the floor.

“Just get up on the bed. We have a job to do tomorrow and we both need at least  _ some _ sleep.”

“I- Are you sure?” Billy asked.

“It’s past two forty-five in the morning, Billy, yes I’m sure. Just get up here and go to sleep.” Machiavelli muttered, moving so there was a clear space on the bed for Billy.

It took a moment, but it wasn’t long before there was an audible sigh and Billy got up on the bed, mumbling thanks as he got under the covers.

And that was honestly  supposed to be the end of that.

_________________________________________________

The first thing Machiavelli noticed when he drifted back into the waking world, was that he was warm. Which wasn’t unusual, considering the last time he checked he’d fallen asleep in an obviously expensive hotel. And because it wasn’t unusual, he didn’t open his eyes. He vaguely wondered if he could just sleep a little longer, mission be damned… but he didn’t really know what time it was and he should probably get to checking that—and then he felt a soft breath on his neck and his eyes snapped open.

Oh.

Oh _ no _ .

Over the course of the night, while they had slept, both immortals had at some point snuggled up together. Machiavelli had arms wrapped around Billy, Billy had one arm wrapped around him, the other on his hip.

Machiavelli closed his eyes again, and mentally cursed himself.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

Not when Billy was still asleep and not when he looked so calm. 

Machiavelli realized he’d been holding his breath and forced himself to exhale. Carefully though. He’d quickly found that he was not, in fact, nervous about waking Billy up, he was actually terrified of it. 

His heart was pounding so heavily in his chest he worried he might accidentally wake him up anyway.

How long had it been since he’d allowed someone to be so close to him like Billy was now? Since someone’s heart had beat so close to his, as Billy’s did now? Since he’d allowed someone’s breath to brush against his neck as Billy’s did now? 

Long. So, so  _ very _ long. Three centuries at least, Machiavelli thought. Lifetimes upon lifetimes of years. And now that it was happening again, he could barely stop himself from dissolving into a panic (or was it embarrassment? Or was it something else?). He didn’t know why, really, which was most definitely unusual for him. He’d made a point not to let anyone get close enough, he’d been so careful to wrap himself in layers of isolation. But all of that was beginning to unravel now.

And for some reason… he actually didn’t feel that opposed to it? Which was odd. Very odd. Might be a problem. Probably a problem. Was it really a problem? Billy was just one person… but then again, Machiavelli was all too familiar with the sheer power one person could hold.

Laying there, Machiavelli was caught between calculating his way out of this somehow, or just trying to go back to sleep, or just sitting there and simmering in his own mild panic.

He really doubted he could go back to sleep at this point, and he really really didn’t want to disturb Billy.

Well. Simmering in mild panic it was.

And then Billy shifted, bringing himself just a little bit closer.

If Machiavelli could have died on the spot from heart failure or embarrassment, he would have.

“You sir, steal blankets. D’ya know that?” Billy mumbled matter of factly. His accent was noticeably thicker, and he’d obviously just drifted into consciousness. He sounded like he was still partially asleep. Maybe he was, actually.

“I… Ah… no. I did not know that.” Machiavelli said softly.

Billy shifted again, pulling slightly away from the Italian. Machiavelli opened his eyes, almost hesitantly. Billy’s eyes were half-open, calm, and that lovely shade of deep blue that Machiavelli had never really properly noticed. Billy smiled slightly. “Figured you were jus’ cold or somethin’.” He slightly raised an eyebrow, still smiling, but in a way that was more teasing. “Not so sure ‘bout that now though.”

Machiavelli felt his face burn, but he didn’t say anything. To tell the truth, he didn’t even know if he could. 

Billy grinned. “Oh calm down, I’m jus’ kidding,'' His gaze softened. “You did seem cold though, so I figured I’d just get closer instead of pulling the blankets back. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“No, no It’s alright.” Machiavelli stammered.

“Good. Anyway,” Billy pulled away from Machiavelli, hopping off the bed. “I’m going to the bathroom, don’t do anything dumb while I’m gone.” He said, obviously teasing lightly.

Machiavelli laughed shakily, sitting up in the bed. His heart was still pounding, and he put a hand over his chest “Don’t worry. I’m not the dumb one here.” he muttered, almost fondly. 

He thought he’d said it quietly enough so that Billy wouldn’t hear, but Billy’s laugh rang out through the room anyway. “Jury’s still out on that one!” The outlaw called back as he shut the bathroom door.

Machiavelli fell back onto the bed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaning softly. He felt… odd? But not odd as in something was off in a bad way, well, maybe a little of that, but it was confusing more than concerning. He felt strangely nice, actually, but he also felt confused as to why exactly he was feeling nice, and that in turn was mildly stressful. He should be embarrassed, right? He’d just woken up cuddled up with his, uh, colleague, and he wasn’t feeling embarrassed?? That was… probably odd? Well, he had been when he’d first woken up, obviously, but now he wasn’t? Which was… odd? Right? That was odd? That was odd. But what was he to do about it? He did have very good control over his emotions, almost complete control if he did say so himself, but this seemed to be one of those occasions when he didn’t know  _ why _ he was feeling whatever way. And that meant that he didn’t know how to properly  _ stop _ himself from feeling whatever way without the feeling coming back later whenever something small happened that somehow related to it.

And there was also the fact that he was supposed to be here to negotiate for an artifact that he didn’t even know the name of with an Elder he had annoyingly little information on, not have a mild crisis over emotional reactions.

He could… deal with whatever he felt later. Yes, he’d have time for an emotional investigation when he got home. For now, he could just… focus on the mission and push most other things out.

Yes. He could do that. It wouldn’t get rid of the emotion, but it  _ would _ dull it down much more.

So he sat up, got out of bed, and began to slowly pace the room, making himself focus on the task ahead, not the present. 

The present could wait for now.

And while he didn’t default to calculation and analysis when he was with or around Billy, he could still do it just fine.

_________________________________________________

“Hey, you’re pretty quiet, are you ok?”

Machiavelli looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Billy shrugged “Well you weren’t reading—your eyes were all glazed over—figured you might be… never mind.” Billy shook his head and turned to look out the train window, resting his head on his hand. “Forget I said anything.”

Machiavelli set his paper down. “Is there something you would like to talk about?”

Billy hesitated for a second but shook his head. “No, it’s alright, just forget it.”

“Are you certain?” Machiavelli asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

Billy hesitated again but spoke this time. “I- Ok yeah you… seem like something’s bothering you? I kinda assumed that it was probably just the job but I thought maybe I should check anyway?”

“You assumed correctly. Forgive me for being less talkative, but I’d prefer to focus on my tactics for the job ahead. I’m going off of very little information for this one.” Machiavelli said, right before he went back to pretending to read his newspaper.

Billy’s gaze lingered on him for a few moments before he leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window.

Machiavelli crossed one leg over the other and wondered if Billy could tell he was lying.

Billy was quiet for a long while, there were a few times where he looked like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind about it last minute. There were also a few times where Machiavelli glanced up at him, met his eyes, and re-realized just exactly how nice they were to look at for what seemed like far longer than the few seconds that it was they stared at each other. Billy always looked away first, back at the window, usually resting his head on one hand.

It might have just been the specific way that the sunlight lit up the train car, but there was more than one time where Machiavelli thought Billy just might be blushing.

Maybe it was the lighting.

It was probably the lighting.

After all, it did make him look sort of like he was glowing, the way it lit up his hair and the top of his head.

He looked… quite nice, actually.

Machiavelli’s heart spiked and he almost physically shook his head to clear it.

Ignoring (or at least  _ trying _ to ignore) the blush-or-lighting predicament, Billy was restless. Either bothered by the silence or bothered by something else on his mind.

If it was the silence bothering Billy, Machiavelli was feeling the same way. The long-stretching silence between them was growing somewhat unnerving (or was it just awkward because of the glances?). It was another in a growing list of very odd things Machiavelli was noticing today. He usually found comfort in silence, space in his head to think, less distraction.

Apparently not now though.

Why not now, he didn’t know. 

Well… alright he had a hunch.

He also was  _ very _ aware that if he began to properly ponder that hunch he would find it much harder to focus on the job.

But of course, it was a little too late and he was already beginning to ponder said hunch even though he was determined to save that sort of thinking for when he got home.

Oh, where had all his mental control gone? Machiavelli wondered idly, as he glanced over a headline in the newspaper that he’d already read over a dozen times since he’d sat down. He was really trying to focus on the mission. He knew full well that it would be at least one or two hours before the train even pulled into the station, maybe another to find the exact location of the Shadowrealm, but… it kept him more or less focused on some main important thing.

His mind did keep wandering back and forth from that morning to the subtle tension that was beginning to make its way between him and Billy, though.

Which was… something he’d have to think more about but…  _ later _ .

Actually, once he got home he’d probably have no other choice than to think about it if his train of thought so far today was anything reliable to go off of.

There was… certainly a lot he might have to think about.

But again,  _ not yet _ , Machiavelli reminded himself. 

Get the job done first,  _ then _ you can go home and think. 

Or have an emotional crisis.

Whatever happened, would happen. But it would happen later, it would happen at home, and he would probably try to avoid it because he could  _ control _ his emotions decently, not  _ cope _ with them decently. Those were two different things.

Forcing that lovely thread of thoughts away (and they did put up a fight), Machiavelli made the mistake of glancing up and making eye contact with Billy. Again.

And this time Billy held eye contact long enough for Machiavelli to be the one to look away this time.

Billy’s eyes were just… so blue and  _ so _ expressive. They were brilliant, really. Like the ocean, or the sky just before dusk. The type of eyes that seemed like they could just… look into you and know things. 

Machiavelli usually took eyes like those as a threat, something to be wary of until he could figure out how that person actually worked. 

But not this time, for some reason. 

Machiavelli suddenly realized that this was going to feel like a much longer train ride than he’d first thought.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Any feedback is greatly appreciated! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Any feedback you have is absolutely appreciated, thank you! :)


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